


Lucky Seven

by onotherflights



Series: Almaty's Fire [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Family Feels, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, alternate universe - non skaters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-11-10 04:00:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11119476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onotherflights/pseuds/onotherflights
Summary: Otabek has seven tattoos, seven stories marked forever upon him in ink. {+ Playlist}





	1. The Lucky Leaf

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! I've been having a really good writing streak lately, feeling super inspired and writing a lot of different things, really just growing as someone who enjoys writing. Almaty's fire has been one of the best things for me lately, I really care about it. It might not be the most popular, but I really adore it and am having the best time. 
> 
> This work is a prequel to AF, obviously Otabek's lucky 7th tattoo is the tiger tattoo mentioned in chapter 1 of that work. I started out just wanting to explain the tattoos Otabek had in a frivolous easy way, but something shifted when I started writing. I realized I needed to tell more of Otabek's story, how his life was before Yuri was around. Also, I'm so connected to my OCs and wanted to build them a little more, especially Serik (baby boy of my heart). As it went on, it got way too long, and felt like it's own story so.... 
> 
> My goal is to update this and AF one to one, so you'll get a peice of the past from Otabek's perspective, and then a piece of the future from Yuri's viewpoint. This first one is cute so enjoy!

Giving himself a stick and poke tattoo while his ten year old brother kept watch was probably not Otabek’s best idea.

In his defense, it was summer, and he was _bored_. And tattoos were so _cool_. If his mother knew what her fifteen year old was doing, however, he wouldn't have skin left to tattoo.

“Mama is going to see it, you idiot.” Serik whispered harshly from where he was leaning against the wall of their shared bedroom. He wasn't a very good watch, looking down at his gameboy rather than keeping an eye on the hall. Otabek wasn't that worried about it, their parents had a new baby, the first and only girl. They were still in the babymoon period, and with their golden older brother away at university Otabek and Serik were officially middle children. He secretly loved the idea that he might be able to get away with more now that there was someone new to hold his parents’ attention.

“How much longer, _аға_? It's been like an hour.” Serik complained dramatically, pushing his messy curls behind his ear. Maybe after this act of rebellion, he could convince Serik to cut his hair, against his father’s wishes for him to grow it out.

“Hush, I'm almost done,” Otabek muttered from his place on his twin bed, the needle held carefully in his hand. “By the time you reach the next level on that game, I'll be finished.”

Serik huffed a laugh. “I don't think it will take you that many hours.”

 

 

Otabek did eventually finish his homemade tattoo, hobbling into their bathroom to examine his handiwork in the full length mirror.

“Cool, right bub?” He asks Serik, who is standing behind him in Spider-Man pajamas. He squints his eyes, kneeling down to examine his older brother’s inner ankle with scrutiny.

“A leaf, Otya? Why a leaf?”

Otabek laughed, easily picking Serik up by his waist, much to the younger boy’s protest.

“It's a four leaf clover, _інім_ , they're lucky.”

That night, Otabek wrapped his new marking with a bandage and wore sweatpants that dragged against the floor. He gave his sister her bottle while their mother bustled around the kitchen, preparing dinner. He made faces at Isha, but she just stared up at him sleepily from where he held her in the sling of his arm.

Back in their room, Otabek and Serik said their fifth and final prayer, the namesake of the last of the Altin children. Otabek had struggled lately to go into prayer with heartfelt intention, but he wasn't going to let Serik stray from true purpose.

Afterwards, they went into their separate beds, Serik turning away from the lamplight and attempting to sleep. Otabek pulled his beat up copy of an American magazine from under his bed, flipping a few pages into _Rolling Stone_ before Serik was crossing the floor and pushing back the comforter, crawling in next to his brother.

“Show me the cool pictures, Otya.” He murmured, and Otabek smirked and flipped easily through the pages.

Their mother never did discover Otabek’s first tattoo, and at least one selfish prayer had worked.

 


	2. Duality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings; mentions of drug use, promiscuity.

Otabek could only vaguely remember his first few months in America. Jarrod tells him he was just a huge asshole who snorted whatever he could get his hands on, but Otabek had a suspicion that his new friend didn't remember as much as he claimed.

He was eighteen, and as reckless as that age allowed.

When he left home, he could deal with his mother and his father’s tears. They were more worried than disappointed, he knew that. He hadn't exactly done anything to settle their fears, and he wondered bitterly if they still prayed for him to move back to Almaty and follow in his brother’s footsteps. Otabek hated being compared to Erzhan, he had despised it since they were children, and if it took being across the world to prevent it, so be it.

What he couldn't deal with, and what no amount of blow could make him forget, was the way his younger brother had stood in front of the door of their house, angry tears streaming down his cheeks as he blocked Otabek’s path.

“If you're really leaving, i’m coming with you.”

Of course, he hadn't let him. Serik was only thirteen, a highly impressionable age. Maybe it was best that Otabek left, maybe his parents could control him better if Otabek’s influence wasn't around.

 

He decided to retouch his old self-made tattoo not long after he settled into America, this time by a professional so it wouldn't fade, and not long after he was looking to add to the collection. He was seeing this girl, and her brother offered to do his ink for almost free, because he needed the practice. Otabek had joined Jarrod’s shitty post-hardcore band because he really needed the gig money, no matter how pitiful it was. He hated it, but at least he got to play. The lead singer was a dick, but his cock was huge, so Otabek put up with him and sat on his face whenever they hooked up so he couldn’t make too many idiotic statements.

The girl he was seeing, Carly, had pushed him into a bathroom stall one night after a show and made him sit on the toilet while she rode him. She was alright, and she always had coke with her, so Otabek liked her enough.

He was drunk and high when she dragged him to her brother’s tattoo studio one night, both of them laughing at nothing when they stumbled into the door. Her brother didn’t seem too amused with their antics, but he managed to give Otabek fresh inked words over each hip with decent results, no unfortunate misspellings.

Carly laid him down on his back when they got back to the house, careful to avoid the bandages as she created a thin white line along his happy trail. She kissed him with too much tongue, and then crawled down his body to snort a line of coke between the two words newly etched into his skin.

 _Love_ sitting on his right hip, and _Lust_ over his left.

 

When he woke up in the morning, he didn’t bother with pants as he wandered into the kitchen, a dull ache in his head and his neglected stomach begging for attention.

  
Jarrod was standing at the stove, and he shoved an already prepared cup of coffee into Otabek’s hands when he saw him.

“You’re a saint, Jar.” He murmured thankfully. He took a sip, and no sooner was the caffeine in his veins than a girl was opening the bathroom door, buttoning up her shirt. She walked over to Otabek, kissing his cheek. She smiled at Jarrod, and stole a slice of bread from the toaster. Without a word, she kneeled to grab her bag by the door, carrying her heels in her hand and the toast in her mouth as she went out the front door.

“Who the fuck was that?” Jarrod questioned, walking over to the refrigerator to get out a carton of milk.

“Carly is her name, yeah?” Otabek answered offhandedly, and he thought maybe it would be better if he was sure, but he wasn’t one hundred percent. Did Carly have blonde hair or red?

“Dude, that wasn’t Carly.” Jarrod retorted, pouring 2% over a bowl of lucky charms.

Otabek frowned, his brows furrowed. “Yeah it was, she spent the night.”

Jarrod put the carton down, turning to Otabek with a livid expression that didn’t match his candy-floss colored hair. “That was Tuesday night. It’s Saturday morning, dickhole.”

Otabek shrugged, downing the rest of his coffee.

“I quit the band, Otabek.” Jarrod announced suddenly, around a mouthful of crushed cereal and marshmallows.

“Why would you do that?”

Jarrows sighed, the spoon clanging down against the bowl. “Because Tony said he was tired of you being a flake or high for practice, so you were out. And I told him to go fuck himself and quit.”

Otabek didn't quite know what to say. He hadn't expected Jarrod to be so loyal to him so quickly, in fact he hadn't expected it at all.

“Don't worry, you don't have to thank me.” Jarrod muttered grumpily as he pushed past him towards the stairs, back up towards his own room. “Just get your shit together so I can rent a car to help Holly move in.”

Otabek furrowed his brows again, confusion settling in again. He walked over to the bottom of the stairs, calling up to his roommate.

“Wait, who is Holly?”


	3. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings; heavy drug use, feelings™
> 
> Edit:  
> інім/ іні - my younger brother/younger brother  
> ағам / аға - my older brother/older brother
> 
> (Thanks to kinoglowworm for helping me fix my Kazakh Vocab!)

Three weeks. That's how long his binge lasted. He'd never done so much, and certainly not so much at once. It was like he'd made a list of everything that could kill him, and he'd started checking off. Yet there he was.

When he woke up sober and miserable, there was a tiny girl sitting cross-legged at the foot of his bed. She had long hair, the shade was an unnatural electric blue. At his stirring, she spoke, a Jersey accent she obviously tried to hide slipping through.

“You gonna chuck again? Bucket’s on the side.”

Otabek shook his head, despite the fact she wasn't looking at him, her eyes downcast and following the lines of a book.

“Good luck getting anything harder than puff for a while, Jarrod just about killed you when he found you passed out at Ricky’s. You were as good as dead, the needle was still in your arm.”

Otabek groaned, turning over and burying his face into his pillow. Had he really sunk that low?

The girl stood up, tossing the paperback onto the bed beside him. It was a copy of _Lolita_ , and her name was written on the inside cover in loopy script. 

 _Holly Kennedy_. She had the name of a porn star, or a really nice suburban mom.

“You're really lucky, you know." She told him as she rounded the corner and slipped past the door frame. "God doesn't usually plan on killing people twice.”

 

  
Otabek was really good after that, or at least he tried. He avoided the harder stuff, but he still lit up every once in a while to take the edge off.

They'd been in two failed bands, so after the last one fell through, Otabek and Jarrod came to the conclusion they should just have their own band. It was still new, and they'd changed names a half dozen times. They also didn't have a permanent drummer, which he complained about a lot (who could have a band without a drummer?) but at least their meek efforts made rent money.

Otabek woke up one morning before the sunrise, and that in itself was an accomplishment. There was someone else in his bed, sparse black hair on his chest to match the mop of it atop his head. He was quiet, Otabek remembered. Quiet then, and quiet in sleep. He didn't want to disturb the sleeping stranger, so he got dressed as quietly as possible.

Otabek took his coffee cup and his acoustic out to the backyard, setting up shop in a lawn chair. He played for an hour or so, drinking coffee and watching the sunrise.

When he went back to his room, the guy was gone. Strangely, he had made the bed. It made Otabek remember when he was a little boy, his parents instilling in him to make his bed each morning before prayer.

He'd been melancholy lately, homesick even. He thought moving to America to chase his big dreams of being a rockstar would rid him of the longing he'd had for his whole life. In a twist of irony, when he finally got the life he wanted, he started to think maybe he hadn't had it so bad all those years.

Either way, the music and the lifestyle was too addictive and interwoven. If he didn't have the music, what would keep his heart beating?

Still, every year in a foreign nation meant he'd missed memories. He'd missed his sister’s first words and first steps. He'd missed weddings, birthdays. Serik was suddenly fifteen, and he'd excelled in school, and had every opportunity to travel from home and attend a university.

Every year he didn't have anything to show, it was another year he couldn't face his family. He didn't have any good news yet, so he rarely picked up the phone when they called. He always answered Serik, though.

Otabek rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, the short hairs of his undercut prickling against the flat of his palm. He turned to look at the back of his hairline in the mirror, trying to decide if it was time for a touch up. While he was there he looked at the fresh ink that spanned across the top of his back, from one shoulder to the other.

It was healing well, his skin was always kind to new tattoos, and there was only a little swelling left on his latest piece. It was his largest one, and he still had another session scheduled to finish up some shading and coloring.

The tall buildings that made up Almaty’s city skyline weren't particularly unique in themselves, but it was the mountains behind them that made Otabek think of home. America didn't have Almaty's mountains, but the weight of home was now forever marked onto his back.

 

Otabek was in the kitchen making box pasta when he shifted through the mail that was cluttered on the table. Trash, bills, trash . . . Kazakh postage.

Otabek picked up the envelope, puzzled as he turned it over in his hand. It had bounced back for some reason. Why didn't Serik say anything about not getting his birthday card?

Ripping the top open and pulling the card out, Otabek examined it. Then, he noticed purple sharpie, thick handwriting scrawled across the back. It took a few seconds to read the message, and a full five minutes of standing in the kitchen for it to sink in.

_Mama said I can do whatever I want after school. So I learned drums and I'm coming to America. By the time you get this, I'll be on the plane so don't try to stop me. Told you i was coming with you, ағам_

Holly was in the room, her papasan chair set up in the corner next to the window where she was curled up with a book. She wasn't paying attention to Otabek. She didn't look up from her reading when he calmly set the card down on the table, and walked over to the third cupboard above the stove. She didn't stir at the clink of glass bottles being moved, lined up along the counter. No movement at the sound of Otabek pulling the cork out of the first one, the alcohol inside making an ugly guzzling sound as he poured it down the sink.

Holly didn't look up until she heard the smash of glass against the wall.

“Otabek?” She questioned, as if the body in their kitchen had been possessed by someone new. “What's wrong?”

His back to her, Otabek set about emptying another bottle of its poison. She repeated his name like she was trying to get his attention, carefully getting up and stepping around the glass on the floor, the stench of vodka seeping into the wall where Otabek had sent the bottle flying.

With no reply, Holly hesitated to step closer. Carefully, she laid a hand on his shoulder, painted black fingertips over the mountains of Almaty.

Otabek turned suddenly, his hands gripping Holly’s forearms. She couldn't push him away, couldn't move from shock. Otabek had maybe genuinely spoken to her a dozen times since she'd moved in. Holly wasn't afraid of him, she hadn't been afraid of a man for a long while, but when Otabek finally did speak his words made her reconsider for just a moment.

“Where's my stash, Hols? Where did he put it?”

A chill ran through Holly, and her skin paled. She spoke up quickly, her voice wavering. “You know I can't tell you. It's for your own good, Beka, you can't control yourself.”

A frustrated groan and Otabek released his grip, Holly stepping back from him slightly.

“I don't care, just get it out of this house. Burn it, flush it, fucking sell it, I don't care. I want it all gone.” He warned sternly.

He reached for another bottle and then, in disgust, smashed it on a dirty plate in the sink. Red bloomed instantly in his palm.

“Fucking hell, I don't get paid for this shit.” Holly muttered as she rushed to grab a dish towel while avoiding the shards, quickly wrapping the material around Otabek’s hand and pushing her own down on top of it with pressure. “You're nothing if not determined, Altin.”

When she looked back up at the man, there were tracks of tears bleeding down his cheeks.

“He can't live here.” Otabek told her hoarsely, misery and fear etched into his face. He looked around numbly, as if he were seeing the house for the first time. “He can't be around this. He can't see how bad I can-”

Otabek paused, hot tears falling without any attempt to cover them up. “He can't see how bad it can get.”

Holly just nodded, half in shock. She didn't know much of anything about Otabek, and now she was holding his bloodied hand in their kitchen, watching him break. Pre-med didn't train her for that.

“He's my baby brother.” Otabek added a moment later, and his low voice cracked. He stepped closer, and buried his face in Holly's shoulder. The sound of him sobbing filled the room and shook the hollow atmosphere that had inhabited the house for as long as Holly had known the two boys. She had met Jarrod; all warm brown skin, bubbly laughter and more than a little bit of a loveable goof, and it was easy to love him, to care about him. Otabek was easy to hate, making an ass of himself when he was on a cocktail of substances and stumbling through the doorway, never saying much. Holly had always seen those dead brown eyes and thought he simply just didn't care. She'd yelled at Jarrod once for worrying about the Kazakh man so much, when clearly he was on a self-inflicted mission to burn out.

As he cried against her, the pain and regret dripping between the boards of the floor they stood on, Holly thought differently. He cared about something after all, and she would never think of brown eyes the same way again.

“We have to protect him. Promise you'll help me, whatever it takes.”

For once, it was hard to hate Otabek. It was easy to make that promise.

 

 

The next morning, their house was so spotless, they could have let the DEA in with comfort. Serik called and said his plane landed a few states away and he was staying in a motel. Otabek bought a carton of cigarettes and traded in his bike for the cash to buy a van. It was big and roomy in the back, an ugly blue thing from the early 80’s. Serik would love it.

On the road, Otabek only had his thoughts. The cigarettes helped the cravings, but barely. The nights were the worst, sleeping on the tiny mattress he'd pushed into the back. He could never find the right spot, never stay warm, never stop the itching and fidgeting.

When he finally got to Serik’s motel and knocked on the door, they didn't say anything. They just held each other, and perhaps more tears were shed, but Otabek would never admit to that if his friends back home asked.

He was right, Serik loved the van. He smiled so pridefully as he sat behind the wheel, and Otabek gave him quiet directions. They talked about everything Serik wanted to talk about, having a couple years to make up for.

Back home, Jarrod and Holly treated him like a cute new puppy, feeding him what little they knew to cook and presenting him with a toy.

“Everyone your age here has a cell phone.” Jarrod explained, passing over the box. Serik looked like he'd just gotten the key to the city.

After dinner and initial niceties, Otabek and Serik were left alone. The older showed the younger to his room in the house, upstairs. He helped Serik carry his bags up, and then stood silently leaning against the wall closest to the door and watched him unpack.

Just standing there, Otabek had to light another cigarette to keep from shaking, whether from anger or lack of white powder he didn't know. He did know he was going to quit smoking soon, anyway. They smelled awful and he was already tired of strangers walking up to him when he was having a smoke and say “those things will kill you.” It always made him want to laugh, if only those strangers knew half of what Otabek put his body through that could yield death.

Serik was sitting at his new desk, arranging his CD collection along the back against the wall in alphabetical order. He was the only person Otabek knew that genuinely kept CDs anymore instead of streaming music, they hadn't yet had their vintage revival the way that vinyl records did. Still, Serik had kept each one he’d ever gotten. Some of the older ones were handed down from Otabek, and they still made an appearance on the shelf. If anything, Serik could bring a few with him into the van and listen to them as he was practicing. He was surely going to over-prepare for his upcoming test to get his license, probably pass with flying colors. Serik was always smarter than he was, so he really shouldn't have been surprised when he said the one thing that had been burning in his veins since he read that card.

“Serik, when we’re playing gigs, you'll see things. Even when we’re not playing, sometimes things get a little -” he paused, trying to find his words as he itched at his arm distractedly. “All I'm saying is, I don't want you to be like me, alright?”

The reply was quick, slicing, but not deep enough to scar. It was what Otabek needed to hear to ultimately calm the rush of anxiety, the fear disguising itself as rage, that greeted him whenever he had thought about what Serik staying in America with him would mean.

“Don't worry _аға_ , I'm not.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel I should put it somewhere, and I feel like it should be obvious but; this is a complete and total work of fiction. I am not trying to romanticize or normalize drug use in any way. I actually cried writing this because I know personally how drug use can destroy lives, it is very serious and not something "cool" or "fun". I think the story shows that. Also, it's not going to change overnight. Otabek still struggles / will struggle with his problems as the main story continues.


	4. Bound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw; Otabek being a FuckBoy, "Daddy", Anxiety, bad coping, numerous drug mentions.
> 
> The song Holly is singing in the beginning is Peach by the Front Bottoms.
> 
> All the Kazakh & Russian translations at the end! (Thank you again @kinoglowworm for your help!)
> 
>  
> 
> This is the longest chapter yet, more than double what was previously here. This chapter was really important for me, So i hope everyone enjoys it too. Otabek will be meeting Yuri, finally, in chapter 5!

It was no secret that Otabek enjoyed sex.

He was limiting his addictions to one indulgence at a time, and he was starting to remember more. He was starting to feel more too, but he tried his best to avoid the undesirable side effects of sobriety.

Distraction usually did the trick, and a preoccupation with physical touch was his safest option. 

So he liked taking new people back to his bed. Not every night, but often. He liked the convenient high of it, no hangover.  

Really, he liked anything that felt good, that much had been proven in spades. He didn't see how it was such a problem, wasn't that the point of living, to feel good as often as possible? He’d rather focus on something physical, sensations he could describe with words, than what was going on in his mind.  

What felt good at the moment was the friction, the heat, the tight grip around his cock as he rolled his hips. If it were only the physical feeling he could focus on, then the sex would be good, great even. Just what he wanted.

The problem was that the guy underneath him seemed determined to be as loud and as lewd as possible.

It was eight in the morning, and the last thing Otabek wanted was for the wailing man underneath him to wake the entire house up. Holly and Jarrod had friends over the night before, and Otabek was pretty sure they had spent the night, meaning they were in the room next to his own, sharing a wall.  

“Fuck, _yes_.” The guy moaned, accompanied by a filthy whine in his ear. Otabek already could feel his skin burning where he was covered in scratches on his back. He loathed when people marked too high, angry red marks making it look like the Almaty skyline across his shoulders was set ablaze.

“ _Daddy_ , right there. Oh fuck.”

Otabek grimaced, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. There wasn't many words Otabek had a personal vendetta against in bed, but _that_ was one of them. Otabek had enough problems, the last thing he needed was another complex.  

He slowed his movements, which only heightened the noises. Quickly, and in a way he hoped wasn’t too forward, he slipped his hand over the guy’s mouth, muffling him. He looked up at Otabek with pleased eyes, seemingly into it.

“Shut up, you'll wake the house,” he explained quickly.

That seemed to quell the noise, and he was able to finish with only a soft grunt and the sound of a desperate whimper pressed into his palm.  

Unfortunately, the high of sex didn’t last as long as a good hit did.  

“Get dressed and leave, I need to go to sleep.” 

The frown was immediate, and Otabek pulled out of the stranger a moment later. He pulled his sweatpants over his hips, standing and walking over towards the half-open window across his room. He picked up a cigarette from his dresser, sticking it between his lips. He cupped his hand around it, guarding the small flame as it lit the end.

When Otabek exhaled smoke, relief flooded his chest. He knew where he was supposed to be going later that day, who he would be seeing. He'd been having anxious thoughts about it for weeks, breaking his fast (and his promises) and snorting lines in the dead of morning when no one was awake to hear him. Just two or three a week, nothing like he used to, but enough to settle the panic for a while. It was ridiculous, that he was afraid. He hated it, and so he tried his best to bury it deep under snow, where the feeling would freeze underground. On the surface, he had distractions. 

“Don’t kick me out just yet.” The stranger persuaded, his curved form a ghost in the sheets. “My friend Carly told me you were good, but she didn't say _how_ good. We can have some more fun together. Maybe take a dip into whatever is in that coffee tin you were looking at when I was taking my clothes off?” 

Their eyes both wandered to the coffee tin, and Otabek was tempted. Also a little unsettled with how obvious he'd become. Did anyone else know that's where he hid his stash lately?

Otabek didn't answer, just looked out the window and smoked with his back turned to the bed. That seemed to be enough of an answer for whoever, and he rose from the bed and started pushing his clothes back on with an angry huff of air.  

“You're all the fucking same, you know?” He said, fumbling with the chain on his jeans. “You think just because you can hold a few notes and masturbate some shitty lyrics onto a page that you're a fucking god or something.”

Otabek knit his eyebrows and took another drag. He wasn't really listening, but the man kept ranting.  

“One day you're actually going to find someone that falls for this shit and sticks by you and you'll hurt them. Maybe that's when you'll wake up, asshole.”

His bedroom door slammed, and Otabek cringed and the noise it made.  

The cigarette smoke followed him out the room when he carefully opened his door a few moments later, poking his head out. The kitchen light was on and he could smell bacon.

As he made his way towards the room, he could hear the sound of Holly singing softly in her foggy voice.

 _You are my peach, you are my plum_   
_You are my earth, you are my sun_   
_I love your fingers, I love your toes_   
_The back of your head, the tip of your nose_

When Otabek rounded the corner of the doorway he could see them standing together. Jarrod was cooking at the stove, bacon and eggs sizzling in the pan in front of him. He was wearing heart-print boxers and a tight sweatshirt with a singer on it that Otabek didn't know. Holly, probably the rightful owner of the sweatshirt, stood behind him with her arms wrapped around his waist and her lips pressing into the nape of his neck. She was in a huge black t-shirt, probably belonging to Jarrod, and tiny pink shorts. Their feet were bare, and they were both smiling.

“Sorry to interrupt.” Otabek muttered as he walked in to sit in a chair between the table and the fridge.

Planting a series of pecks to the back of Jarrod's neck along the fade of his pink hair, making him chuckle, Holly turned, easily pulling her newly aqua-tinted hair into a high ponytail.

“It's alright, we knew you were up.” She said, walking over to Otabek with a knowing smirk. “We heard quite a riot going on in your bedroom, _Daddy.”_

Otabek narrowed his eyes at the playful tone, and crossed his arms over his chest. Holly sat down on top of the table next to him, taking the cigarette from between his lips and dangling it teasingly before letting it fall into the half empty cup of coffee on the table. She gave him a saccharine smile, head tilted and her dimples embedded in her rosy cheeks.   

“Oops, sorry _Daddy_.”  

Instantly cringing, Otabek got up again to fix himself a new, tobacco free cup of coffee. Coke went great with coffee, but that would have to wait until later.  

“I didn't ask him to call me that.” He grumbled, dipping a teaspoon into pure white sugar and watching it fall slowly into the black liquid. “I kind of prefer it when people don't talk in general. Especially little blue haired chicks.”

Holly stuck her tongue out petulantly in his direction.

“We tried to offer him breakfast as he jetted out of here,” Jarrod piped in, transferring food from pan to plates. Otabek noticed he had a separate pan going on the fire that held scrambled eggs with cheese and what looked like turkey bacon, for Serik. “Ironically though, he doesn't eat meat.”

Otabek rolled his eyes, pouring cream into his coffee. He watched the white seep in, bleeding and stretching around in the black until he dipped the spoon in and swirled, the two mixing together until they were indistinguishable from one another.

At that moment, he heard feet padding down the stairs in rough sleepy steps. A second later Serik appeared, his curly hair fluffed up comically and rabbit slippers on his feet.

“Good morning, porkchop.” Holly greeted cheerily, swinging her feet from her place at the table.  

Serik rolled his eyes towards the sky the way that Otabek had just done, but there was still a soft smile on his rounded face.  

“Good morning Jar, thank you.” He said, reaching for the plate waiting for him. He passed next to Otabek on his way to the table. “Morning, bub.”

He sat down at the head of the table with his plate, reaching for the carton of orange juice that was at the center.  

“Good morning Holly who buys me turkey bacon because she knows I don't eat pork, yet still insists on my nickname being porkchop.”

Holly smiled warmly back at him, reaching a hand out and smoothing down his hair.

“Isn't it ironic?”

 

 

***

 

Otabek had gone back to sleep, but only a few hours later Serik was opening his bedroom door, calling for him to wake up.

“I'm not going.” He groaned immediately, burying his head under a pillow. “He can go back home for all I care, I don't want to see him.”

“You haven't seen _аға_ in years, you should be happy.” Serik replied, ignoring his own older brother's protests and moving to the closet to find something for him to wear that had no rips, studs, spikes, or offensive language. It would be a challenge.

“Exactly,” the older of the two deadpanned, sitting up reluctantly and rubbing his hands over his face. “I'm happy _because_ I haven't seen him in years.”

Serik shot him a look, and threw a black button down shirt onto the bed. Otabek knew he'd selected it because it was the only thing that would cover up all his tattoos. Rebelliously, he started considering a neck piece.  

“It's just dinner Otya, he's not imposing upon us that much. He's just in town for two days, and getting a good report from him will really be good for _шеше_ . So can you like, chill on the sibling rivalry for like, two seconds?”

Otabek didn't say anything, but he reached for the pack of cigarettes on his nightstand. Huffing in frustration, Serik grabbed them from him, stuffing them in his back pocket. 

“Yeah, because your clothes stinking of that stuff will really gain you points.”

Otabek wanted to scream that he didn't care. He didn't give a _singular fuck_ about what Erzhan thought of him. It was the eldest of the Altin brothers that had a problem anyway, and of course, _of course_ he had become a successful business owner, his company going international by its sophomore year of opening. His problem was that he was a boastful asshole who had been speaking down to Otabek since they were toddlers. He really didn't care what his workaholic brother had to say to him, but he knew if he expressed any of it aloud, it would prove the contrary.

Somehow, the youngest brother managed to get Otabek dressed, his hair slicked back and away from his face and his body covered head to toe in black, complete with shoes he'd had to borrow from Serik that pinched his toes.

“I can't believe you're wearing a fucking bow tie.” He scoffed as they climbed into the van.  

Serik knit his eyebrows in offense, his bottom lip pouting out.

“Bow ties are _cool_.”

 

 

***

 

 

The collar of Otabek’s shirt was suffocating him, or maybe that was just the heat of the atmosphere.

Of course Erzhan had told them to meet him at the restaurant that was on the ground floor of the hotel he was staying in, which was one of the nicest in the city. As they walked into the marble floor lobby, Otabek couldn't help but shrink in upon himself. He'd been in the country for a long while, and walking into a hotel to have dinner with his brother was the best view he’d seen of the American dream.

“Beka, this way.” Serik directed him, seeing him frozen in place.  

When they were seated at the table, the waiter handed them a single sheet of thick paper as a menu. It wasn't laminated, and it didn't even have prices on it. Otabek swore his collar was getting tighter by the minute. Under the table, he scratched against his knee distractedly.

“He's late.” Was Otabek’s defense. Serik shot right back, not missing a beat.

“We’re ten minutes early.”  

Sure enough, the eldest of the four appeared at the front of the restaurant a moment later, looking like someone had brought a picture of their father from his younger days to life. His hair was combed back neatly, and his suit looked like it cost triple what Otabek had scrounged up to buy his guitar.  

As the host led him to the table, Serik stood with a genuine smile on his face.

“ _ағам_ , welcome to America,” He said excitedly, walking forward to embrace Erzhan is a tight hug. Erzhan wore an identical smile, holding the younger close like he hadn't seen him in years. Serik had been home a couple of times since he had migrated, it was Otabek who had left and never looked back.

Patting Serik’s back affectionately, almost like one does to a baby, Erzhan released him from his hold. And then he turned to Otabek, who hadn't bothered to stand. There was an awkward silence as he slowly rose from his seat, Erzhan’s arms already open.

The hug was cold and quick as the first jump into winter snow, just a loose wrap of arms around each other's middle. Otabek tried to break away, but Erzhan held his shoulders in each hand, looking over him. Assessing him.

“ _інім_ , you look healthy.” Were his first words. His English was terrible. He would speak in their home language for the rest of the dinner, slipping into something more comfortable and familiar.  

 _Healthy_. As they all sat back down, Otabek seethed. He knew what that really meant. It meant ‘you don’t look like you’re on as many drugs as everyone is saying you are’. 

Serik was quick to rush in with the questions. He wanted to know all about how their family was doing, their neighbors, their friends.

“Everyone misses you so much, _іні._ Mrs. Khar always smiles when I mention you, she misses you looking after the dogs in the winter.” He pauses, looking over at his other brother across the table. “She even misses you, Otabek.”  

_Well, isn't that secondhand concern just so nice._

The waiter returned to take their orders. Erzhan and Serik both requested full meals, but when the man turned to Otabek he just muttered a simple request.  

“Whiskey, neat.”

Serik nudged his leg with his knee under the table. He ignored him and the waiter just nodded with a strained smile, taking his menu and leaving them. Otabek didn't care, he wasn't going to let his brother pay for some fancy meal for him just because he pitied him.

“Well,” Serik diverted the attention back to himself, and Otabek was thankful. “How is the business going, Erz? Must be doing well if you've already spread west.”  

At that, Erzhan launched into talking about himself and all the success he'd had, and Otabek was able to tune out easily enough.

He looked around the restaurant at the other patrons sitting at their candlelit tables with linen tablecloths and silk napkins. What were their stories, their reasons for being there? He looked around and saw businessmen and lawyers, and the beautiful but aged women who probably adored them, and they probably cheated on. He wondered, as he looked around, how many of them had indulged in destructive behaviors. Did the doctor sitting at the table ten feet from him swallow pills to knock himself out when he came home from a long shift, still high on adrenaline from performing a hard surgery? Did the housewife at the table behind him start drinking at noon? At the booth in the corner, did the Ivy League son making a toast to his parents have track marks all down his arms underneath that suit? 

His knee itched again, and then up his thigh. He looked down at the table, trying to focus on breathing. _Stop thinking, Stop thinking. Don't think about it. Don't think about it. Don't think about how good a hit would feel right now._

“Beka?” Serik asked, snapping him out of his meditation and causing him to look up. “Erz just said Isha is starting kindergarten soon.”

He nodded tightly, his eyes on Serik. “That's great.”

At the mention of his sister, who barely knew how to say his full name last time he had seen her, he calmed just slightly. He was able to pick up the drink the waiter had left by his side, taking a sip and letting the warmth of it settle into him.

“She's so much like you, Serik. So full of joy and life. It's such a pleasure to watch her, so young and innocent to all the trouble of this world.” 

Otabek finished his drink within the minute.

 

 

****

 

The dinner continued in a similar fashion and by the time they were walking out to the parking lot, Serik and Erzhan walking together and Otabek trailing behind, all he could think about was going home and crashing. It was everything he had thought it would be, a hundred little microaggressive comments that had him feeling as tall as a mouse. It was worse too that Erzhan towered over him in a literal sense. With Serik, it wasn't so noticeable. Erzhan had at least a foot or more on him.  

It was a chill night in early June, the stars above them dotting the sky as they walked towards the van.

“Serik, you go on ahead and wait for us, I want to talk with Otabek.” He heard Erzhan say quietly, and Serik just gave a quick nod, looking back at Otabek as if to say _don't start a fight with him._

Erzhan turned, his hands in his suit pockets. For the first time that night, he had taken off the fake smile of contentment he wore for Serik’s sake. He nodded towards a half-wall at the back of the restaurant, obscured from the view of the van, and started walking towards it, Otabek following behind him. His fingers curled into fists unconsciously.

When he rounded the corner of the wall, he was greeted with the sight of Erzhan clutching a pack of Marlboro reds in his hand, one cigarette sticking out in invitation.  

Confused, he hesitantly unfurled his fingers and reached out for it. Was it a test? Was it just an excuse for Erzhan to throw another cutting comment his way, like ‘ _I know it's not the hard stuff you're used to’_?

Instead, he watched in amazement and half shock as his older brother took the pack and slid the next one out of the box and held it between his fingers. He put the pack into his pocket, then palmed a red bic lighter and handed it over to Otabek.

“Thanks.” He muttered quietly, holding the cigarette between his lips and listening to the soft flick of the flame as it appeared at the curve of his thumb over the lighter, burning the end of the stick.

He handed it back to his brother, who copied his motions.  

Otabek was so caught off-guard, he almost coughed as he took his first drag a little too long. They both exhaled gray wisps of smoke, mixing together and floating up towards the stars shining over them.

 

He wasn't about to say something stupid like _I didn't know you smoked_. It was just an adjustment, a disillusion. All his life, he had thought his brother was the better version of himself, completely perfect in every way that he failed. He should have known better. Everyone had their vices.

Erzhan took a long breath, his eyes closing briefly like what he was about to say had a difficult time crawling from his throat.

“They miss you, you know. _әке, шеше._ I've never seen them pray so much. They're worried. _шеше_ especially, you know how she is.”  

He takes another drag, and Otabek says nothing. Erzhan looks at him for a long time, just staring at him. Then, strangely, he chuckles.

“It's strange, you know. You were born making noise.”  

Otabek knit his brow, lifting the cigarette back to his lips. Erzhan continued, looking away from him, to the stars.  

“Looking back now, you probably had colic. _шеше_ would deny it to this day, she's superstitious about that sort of thing, she would never believe you were cursed in any way. I remember you clearly as a baby, though. You didn’t just cry, you _screamed_ , constantly. I wanted them to take you back to the hospital so badly. _әке_ would sing to you all night, and you tried your very best to drown him out . . .that’s where you got your singing from, you know?”  

He's smiling now, still looking towards the heavens, but Otabek nods his head in acknowledgment regardless. He had never heard any of that before, but he does remember his mother and father singing to him as a child, and him singing back. He'd always loved it, and it had always been something that calmed him, made him feel normal. Even as a child, he's had a darkness in his veins and an incurable pain in his heart. Even now, the drugs didn’t cure it completely. It was only quelled momentarily when he was singing, a guitar at his hip.

The next statement comes out with a puff of smoke. “You’re so quiet now, after all that. It’s almost ironic.”

Otabek would agree with that. Unless he was home with Serik and his friends, he didn't have much to say. What was the point? The only time he had something worth saying was when he was singing.  

“They don't care what you're doing,” Erzhan continued. “They don't care about the drugs, they care about you. You're still their son, they created you, even though you seem pretty content to alter that creation, going by the amount of ink you're so obviously hiding under that shirt.”  

Otabek did chuckle at that, nodding in confirmation. Erzhan rolled his eyes easily and for a moment he looked younger, less serious.

“That they might be upset about.” He joked lightly.

He wasn't going to mention he was planning on more, or the fact that Serik was scheduled for his first session the next day with Otabek’s most trusted artist. He had a feeling that his younger brother was so excited when he'd signed off on the papers that he'd already blabbed to Erz.  

“They know you are taking good care of _іні,_ by the way. If you thought they were angry or disappointed with you because he came here, they are not. It was his choice, and they could not do anything to convince him otherwise. He made quite a fuss for the time he was home without you there, you know.”

No, Otabek didn’t know. He’d been under the perception that Serik had been doing just fine without him. The truth was, without Serik or anyone in his family around to make him feel guilty, he’d been going down a dangerous road, and over the speed limit at that. He remembered when he found out Serik was joining him, he’d panicked. He had purged everything he had in the house, ashamed and terrified that having drugs around would turn Serik into a junkie. Of course, slowly, he’d built back up his own personal supply. He wasn’t stupid enough to think he’d totally hidden it from Serik, his brother was smarter than he was. Maybe even smarter than Erzhan.  

The idea that Serik had even missed him was hard for Otabek to accept. What was he even good for that would inspire being missed? Surely one day Serik would regret leaving home and head back to Almaty. That day just hadn’t come yet.  

“I’m not . . . I don’t have a problem, Erz.” Otabek said slowly, carefully. He didn’t know why he felt the need to defend himself suddenly. He didn’t care what Erzhan thought. “I’ve got it under control, I could stop any time I want to.” 

Otabek believed that, he really did. The day just hadn’t come yet.

Erzhan finished his cigarette, exhaling his last cloud of smoke and stomping the stick out into the pavement under his expensive Italian leather shoe. Otabek did the same with his own cigarette, but he knelt to pick both the stubs up from the ground and threw them into the nearby dumpster. When he stood, the elder of the two looked at Otabek’s face, putting a hand on his cheek. His eyes were sad, but hopeful.  

“Alright, _іні_. Whatever you say.” He spoke softly, a faint smile spreading across his lips. “Just remember to take care of yourself as well, okay? If not for yourself, then for _әке_ and _шеше._ And for me. I worry too, you know?” 

Otabek nodded, and Erzhan dropped his hand. He reached back in his pocket, pulling out a yellow sticky note that had his quick scrawl on it.

“I finally convinced them to get cell phones a while ago, I pay for them so it’s unlimited.” He handed the note over to Otabek. “I’m going to leave with Serik and take him for dessert. You should call them. Maybe _әке_ first, if you call _шеше_ she’ll just interrogate you. My new office number is on the back. I’ll be in New York most of the year, but if you ever need anything. . .”

He trailed off, as if he wasn’t sure what he could suggest Otabek needed help with.  

“Thank you, Erzhan.” He said, and huffed in surprise, clutching the note in his palm, when his older brother pulled him into a hug. It was tight, inescapable and warm. It was like Erzhan was afraid he would suddenly slip away, like cigarette smoke floating toward the night sky.

He let go slowly, and touched his hand briefly to Otabek’s cheek once more.

“Alright, better go. Serik will want ice cream, right?”

Otabek shook his head. “He likes milkshakes. Strawberry milkshakes.”

“Strawberry milkshakes, then.” He nodded with a tight smile, and began walking back towards the van.

 

Alone, Otabek looked down at the note with the numbers on it. The fear from before, the one that made his chest tighten and his collar feel like it was choking him returned. He unbuttoned his shirt down to the third, taking deep breaths. He slid down the wall until he was sitting, and his legs didn’t shake as much that way.

He thought about the time. It was already the next day in Almaty.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket. He didn’t know how long he stared at the screen until he started dialing the number.

As it rang, a million thoughts ran through his mind. What would his father say to him?  

“Hello?”

Otabek counted seven heartbeats before he answered. “Hey _әке,_ It’s Otabek.” 

He heard a strange noise from the other end of the line, something between surprise and grief. Then, he heard another voice, softer and light.

“Who is it?” He heard Isha’s voice say.

“Otabek, my son. My son. . .How are you, my son?” His father spoke into the phone, his voice tender but louder than usual, as if to make sure he could be heard over six thousand miles away and across two oceans. Then, a softer whisper directed at his sister. “Lay back down, _звезда моя_.” 

It was almost noon back home, he was probably trying to settle Isha down for a nap. He couldn’t stop his father’s voice repeating on loop in his head. _My son, My son_ , as if he couldn’t believe it.

“I’m still around.” He replied evenly despite how his fingers shook, the phone quivering where he held it in his hand.  

In the background, he could hear Isha talking in Russian, probably refusing to sleep. It was the first time he realized he was forgetting words and phrases, as he struggled to translate. 

“Do you still sing, my son?”

Of all the things, that was what his father wanted to know. Otabek couldn’t believe it. “Are you sober? Are you still in your right mind?” had been more along the lines of what he was expecting. The reality was much easier to respond to.

 

“Of course, _әке._ ”

A relieved sigh came from the other side of the world, a weight lifted off of tired shoulders. 

“Shall we sing _Ай бөпем_ to your sister, to get her to take her nap?”

“Okay.”

In a hushed voice, Otabek could hear his father convincing Isha to lie down, to settle. He could tell he was on speaker phone, because as he began singing in time with his father, the voice seemed slightly distant.

 

_Аулым көшiп барады-ау_

_Алматы_ _кiм көнбейдi тағдырдың_

_Салғанына-ай._

_Көрмегелi көп айдың_

_Жүзi болды ата-анамның хабарың_

_Алмағалы-ай._

 

_(My village traveled to_

_Almaty, to build a life,_

_Oh, it is fate._

_So many months,_

_Since I last got news_

_From my parents.)_

 

_Ай-ай бөпем кейiн қалған елiмдi_

_Көрер мекем-ай._

_Игигай-игигай -оу._

_Көрер мекем-ай._

 

_(Oh-oh, my little one,_

_Will I ever see the motherland_

_I left behind?_

_Will I ever see the motherland?)_

 

_Туған жерден сағыным_

_Топырағың көз алдыма келедi_

_Cол турағым-ай._

_Ата-анамның аяулы_

_Аңсағанда ақ бөпемдi аялап_

_Отырамын-ай._

 

_(I miss the land where I was born,_

_I still see the land before my eyes,_

_My motherland,_

_My dear parents,_

_I miss, while cherishing my little one,_

_I sit here.)_

 

As they finished the song, silence fell from both sides of the phone. Otabek swore he could hear the soft sound of Isha’s breathing, and his heart ached. He missed his little sister so much. It occurred to him that she would look different now, so much so, than when he had last seen her. She would have grown and gained so many abilities in those two short years. Would she even recognize him after so long, being so young? 

“Are you still there, my son?” His father asked quietly.  

His reply only took the count of three heartbeats that time. “Yes, I’m still here.”

“And are you really doing well, so far from home?”

Otabek didn’t know how to answer that instantly. There were certain aspects of himself that were doing well. He had friends who he knew cared about him. He had his brother, who for some unknown reason managed to love him unconditionally, even when the conditions were massive at times. He had the music, always the music. The band wasn’t quite where he wanted it to be, but it would get there. Everything else, though. Everything else in his life existed in a valley, constantly traveling up and being knocked down. At any given point, his pride could be at the top of the mountain, and his creativity living in the valley. Or his creativity was at the peak, but his cravings sat beside it, like the thorns of a rose. 

If he touched his hands to his two hips, the words _love_ and _lust_ would fit beneath his palms. Where had love been for the past two years? Lust was certainly a frequent guest, but when was the last time Otabek had been in love? He felt love for his family, his brother, of course. There was a different love out there, though, the kind that people had written songs about. The greatest songs Otabek could think of were at their root about that kind of love. That kind of love was the reason he was here, the reason all of his siblings existed and were bound together by blood.  On the valley between the mountains in his mind, where had love been hiding? 

“Otabek?”

His father pulled him out of his thoughts, and his questions would have to be answered another day.

“I’m still figuring it out.” He finally answered honestly.

“I know you are, my son.” His father replied, sounding fond. Otabek could tell he missed him, and Serik too. “To comfort an old man, tell me you will visit soon.”

That time, Otabek didn't have to count heartbeats. He knew the answer. “I will.”

They said their goodbyes after that, and Otabek noticed as he hung up the call that his fingers were no longer shaking. What surprised him instead were the tears stinging the corners of his eyes. They fell down the slopes of his cheeks easily, spilling as fast as rain.

 He cried until his chest was heaving, his lungs struggling to keep up. He dug his fingertips into his knees, desperately trying to keep his form compact where he sat against the wall.

The tears fell until the only thing left to do was look up.

Stars still covered the sky, littered among the heavens. He breathed in fill after fill of clean air. He looked up at the stars for minutes, maybe an hour. He didn't count heartbeats or the stars or the time, he just looked up in appreciation, in wonder like he was a child seeing the night sky for the first time.

Soon enough, he rubbed his face only to find it was dry.

He went back to the van, and waited.

By the time Serik came back, Erzhan with his back to them as he paid the taxi driver, Otabek was digging through the glove box, searching. Craving. He felt numb, frostbitten.

 “Hey, Otya.” He said, climbing up into the passenger seat and moving his brother’s hand away from the glovebox, closing it quickly and resting his feet over it to keep it closed. When Otabek looked at him sharply, he put a milkshake in front of him. “Drink this.”  

Otabek drove them home with one hand on the wheel, and the other holding a chocolate milkshake, extra whip cream. Two cherries on top, and Serik stole them both.

 

 

***

 

The next morning, Serik jumped onto his bed to wake him like it was his birthday and he wanted to open presents. Technically, it would be a belated birthday gift from Otabek.  

“Wake up, Beka! It's tattoo time!” He sang loudly, pushing lightly on his shoulder until he turned over.

He glared up at his brother, sleep still in his eyes. “I'm only putting pants on if you promise to never utter the phrase ‘tattoo time’ again in your life.”

Serik sat back on his heels. “I won't. Cross my heart and hope to die.” And then he actually crossed an “X” over his heart, like they were kids again. Well, really, Serik still was.

“Stick a needle in your eye.” Otabek finished the rhyme as he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He looked at Serik with a smirk, a mischievous expression. “You know, one small slip and that could actually happen . . .”

Serik’s brown eyes widened comically, and he pushed Otabek’s shoulder until he fell off the bed. “Don't say that or it _will_ happen, Beka! You of all people should know about superstition!”  

Otabek laughed from his place on the floor, pulling his boots out from underneath his bed and shoving his feet into them.  

“Alright, go get dressed and we’ll head out.”  

Serik dashed back upstairs to his room, and Otabek stood and pulled a t-shirt over his head. He shoved his sweatpants on, over his boots, not too concerned about being well dressed. He was taking Serik to get his first tattoo from Armand, who had been the first and last person to put ink on Otabek. He wouldn’t trust anyone else to give Serik his first, especially with it being as lame as it was. In Serik’s defense, Otabek’s first tattoo was pretty lame too, and it looked like utter shit before he had it redone. At least Serik was getting his ink at fifteen, but by a professional instead of DIY’ing it the way Otabek had done.

When Otabek picked up his phone from where it was charging on his dresser, he was surprised to see a text waiting for him, from his mother of all people.

Even worse, she’d typed it out in English.

 

_Otabek!! Your father informed me he talked with you on the phone this morning. You are well! I am glad, my son. Now we can text. I know how to do. Also I know you are giving Serik Tattoo! Not Happy! (crying laughing emoji)  But I love you!! Please come to visit us, my son! We mis s you !!_

 

Unable to resist the smile spreading over his face, he pocketed his phone and grabbed the van’s keys.  

When he walked out of his room, he could hear yelling upstairs. Serik closed his bedroom door and quickly hopped down the stairs towards him.  

“They’re fighting again?” He guessed, and Holly’s aggressive cursing seemed to answer before Serik could nod.

“You know how that always ends, though. Best if we’re out of here before they make up and start boning.” 

As they walked side by side out to the kitchen and then out the front door, they could hear a door slamming upstairs.

 

 

Once they were in the van, Serik grabbed the aux cord and plugged in his phone, locating the “Serik’s Jams” playlist he had created on Spotify. The sound of Sum 41’s _In Too Deep_ flowed out from the speakers, and Otabek rolled his eyes at the selection but said nothing in protest.

At a red light he noticed Serik’s fingers were tapping against his knees, but not to the beat of the music.

“Are you getting nervous now, bub?”

“Psshh, What? No.” Serik snorted, making it way too obvious he was lying through his teeth. “I’m not nervous.” 

Otabek hummed, pressing down a little bit harder on the gas than he needed to when the light turned green. Serik lurched forward, and Otabek laughed easily.  

“Right, you’re not nervous at all.”

Serik sat back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest.

“I’m not.” He muttered defiantly.

 

 

By the time Serik actually got into the chair and Armand was preparing his station, he looked at Otabek with wide eyes, and he was sweating.

“Alright, how about this bub,” He said, straddling the chair next to him. “I’ll get one too, that way you don’t have to go through it alone?”

Serik seemed to perk up at that, nodding. “Like when we used to get our vaccines at the same time.”

“Sure. Only times like, a hundred.”  He grinned, and Serik’s face fell into dismay. He’d be fine once they got started, probably. “Is that alright, Armand?” He asked, and the man nodded.

Armand only looked intimidating. He had long dark curls he wore up in a ponytail, and the muscles of a body builder. He had full sleeves on top of that, beautifully done ink, a tapestry on his skin. When resting, his face kind of looked like he was contemplating murder. Then someone told a joke or a good song came on the radio, and he had the smile of a little boy.  

“Jamie will get you, Beks.”

Quick to notice, Serik smirked at him. “Beks?”

“Shut up, or i’ll tell him to tattoo _Mrs._ Pacman.” 

Serik shrugged. “That’s cool too, I don’t discriminate.”

 

  

Minutes later, Otabek and Jamie were back from the drawing room, and the comforting buzz of tattoo guns at work filled the area of Armand’s shop that they occupied. Otabek turned his head to watch Serik’s priceless initial reaction. He tensed up, his face scrunching up like he’d eaten something sour. Then, only a second later and finding out it wasn’t nearly as bad as whatever he’d mentally prepared for, he relaxed, opening his eyes with relief.

“It’s not that bad.” He told Otabek, as if to comfort him.

Otabek was sitting back in his chair, no tension anywhere to be found. He loved getting fresh ink, it was so relaxing. The reliable buzz, the continuous feeling. He was only a little wary that it wasn’t Armand handling the machine, but he’d obviously trained Jamie to do the exact same things he did because as Otabek watched him working, it seemed to be going just as well.

He looked over to Serik to check on him only to see he was looking back.

“What is that you’re getting, _аға_?”

Looking down at the four thick, simple lines already marking his right wrist, Otabek replied easily. “A tally mark.”

“Obviously.” Serik droned, rolling his eyes. “What does it mean, though?”

“It means us.” Otabek replied easily, like it was just as clear. “There’s four of us. You, me, Erz, and Isha. One line runs through all of us, we all have the same blood. No matter what happens, wherever we go, we’re all bound together by that line. We’re all us.”

To his horror, when he looked back at Serik, there were tears in his eyes. He knew it was sentiment, but he brushed it off, chuckling as he looked down to where Armand was working on the ink wrapping around his ankle.

“Don’t start crying now, bub. He’s not even done the outline.”

Serik just smiled and started laughing too, rubbing his eyes with the sleeves of his hoodie.

 

 

 

Otabek’s tattoo was finished long before Serik’s was, so he was sitting with his wrist already wrapped when the bell above to the door of the shop rang, announcing a new customer.

Only it wasn’t, because Erzhan Altin wouldn’t get a tattoo in his right mind.

“Hey Erz, thanks for coming.” Serik greeted chipperly as their older brother approached, pointing down at his ankle. “Doesn’t it look good so far?”

Of _course_ Serik had told him when they would be there, too. He had probably gone on livestream with half their neighborhood back home to announce he was getting his first tattoo over milkshakes the previous night.

The older man’s smile was tight. “As good as something that wasn’t there in the first place can look.”

Serik laughed, but Otabek cut to the chase. “What do you want, Erzhan?”

“I have an offer for you boys.”

Otabek leaned back in his chair, looking up at him suspiciously. “We’re listening.”

Erzhan pulled up a stool, sitting next to Armand, who gave him a friendly smile.

“There’s a Aston Martin parked outside, but - .” He started.

Armand quickly cut in. “In this neighborhood? You might want to move it.”

“But what?” Serik questioned excitedly, ignoring the concern from Armand. 

Erzhan pulled a key out of his pocket, swinging it around his finger by the ring. “But it’s only for the weekend.”

“Aw man.” Serik slumped back into the chair, pouting.  

“Is that all?” Otabek pushed.  

Erzhan shook his head. “It’s only for the weekend, but on my way here I just so happened to find these tickets in the glove box. Thought I’d offer them to you two.” 

Reaching into his pocket, he handed the folded papers over to Otabek.  

Eyes narrowed, he took them and unfolded them carefully.  

They were plane tickets.

Round trip, for three weeks.

To Almaty.

“Think you can put them to use?” Erzhan asked quietly.

Otabek couldn’t say anything. He knew how much it meant. For Erzhan, with all his new money, it was nothing. It would have taken Otabek months to save for a ticket, much less one for Serik. He looked up at his older brother, speechless, and only hoped the look in his eyes reflected the respect and humility he was feeling.

Seeming to understand, Erzhan nodded once, a soft smile on his face.

Then, Otabek turned to Serik, who was grinning like he had known all along. With how smart he was, it wouldn’t surprise anyone, especially Otabek.

“I call the window seat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> інім/ іні - my younger brother/younger brother  
> ағам / аға - my older brother/older brother  
> әке - Dad "ake"  
> шеше - Mom "shehsheh"
> 
> звезда моя - My star (Russian)  
> (Isha's name literally means 'at night')
> 
> * The Kazakh lullaby I used was a challenge, every translation I read was slightly different but I used [this](http://www.mamalisa.com/?t=es&p=3978) one and if you scroll down, there is a video where you can listen to it sung beautifully (the first one). 
> 
> As always, any questions/comments/concerns, please don't be afraid to ask here or on tumblr!


	5. Rebirth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *looks at the work count*....Um, Sorry? Maybe? That awkward moment when the prequel is now longer than the base story. Enjoy!

Plane bathrooms were disgusting.

They were small, almost too small for one person to move around comfortably. Also, in an effort to save what little space was there, the counter that held the sink wasn't very big. Still, as Otabek used his credit card to push a small pile of white powder into thin white lines, he managed to have enough room.

Coke was almost too easy to find and definitely too easy to get onto a plane. He had held off as long as he could, craving, waiting. It was a long flight, so he slept a few hours, watched a movie, listened to some music, started writing a song. He didn't like the song, so he didn't bother finishing it.

Serik was fast asleep in the window seat beside him, so he took his opportunity and headed to the back of the plane towards the glowing sign.

Otabek didn't quite know how to put into words what he felt when he took a hit. If it were Serik, he would compare it to a video game character gaining life back, little red pixelated hearts filling back up where they had previously been empty.

All he did know is that he had been good. He'd spent three weeks in Almaty and he hadn't done a thing. He'd been present and engaged, and his family had kept him far too busy to think out his next hit.

Except for the nights. The nights were horrible. The waking hour between when he touched the pillow and his body finally fell asleep had been consumed, every night, by thoughts of how good it felt when the chemicals entered his bloodstream, affected his brain. For three weeks, he hadn't given in. Not when his little sister would crawl into his bed to wake him each morning, singing and pulling his hair.

Now, after being on his best behavior, he could have his reward.

In Almaty, he could almost forget who he had become since he had moved to America. It was easy to slip back into that role, to be calm and quiet and passive. If he had looked in the mirror, he might not recognize the man looking back at him.

Now, in the airplane bathroom with three lines worth of coke up his nose, he looked at himself in the square mirror. He recognized who he saw looking back at him, and he smiled.

He leaned back against the wall, sighing in relief. Wiping what was left on the surface up with his fingers, he stuck the two digits into his mouth, half moaning in pleasure as they pressed against his gums.

When he got back to his seat, Serik was still fast asleep, oblivious to the fact that Otabek was suddenly in such a better mood than when they had boarded the plane that morning.

In the time he had left, he finished the song. He still didn't like it all that much though.

 

***

California was as bright and hot as he had remembered, and it was July now so it was somehow hotter. LAX was crowded and bustling as always, but as they stood at the top of an escalator with their suitcases in hand, it was clear to see who was waiting for them below.

Jarrod had picked out the brightest neon green poster he could find, and Holly had decorated it with gaudy, sparkling gold letters that the entire population of the airport could see.

_Welcome Home Altin Brothers_

As they reached the bottom, Serik was quick to rush forward towards them with open arms.

“Welcome back porkchop!” Holly greeted excitedly as she embraced the younger boy, and Serik lifted her in his arms and spun her where he held her waist, her loud, infectious laughter making people passing by look twice. Once for the laugh, and back again for the hair.

“We missed you guys,” he said, releasing Holly from his hold so that she could hug Otabek, albeit just a bit less excitedly. “We’re surprised to see you both here, though.”

“Yeah,” Otabek chimed in, quick to get to the point. “Didn't you guys break up again?”

Jarrod moved to rub the back of his neck, his expression puzzled. “Well, sort of, but we-”

Holly cut him off, a nervous smile making the dimples on her cheeks seem forced. “We did. We’re just friends now. But it's all good, because you guys are home!” She pulled Serik in for another hug, and Otabek shot him a look out of the corner of his eye, a smirk playing on his lips. There was always more to the story when it came to Jarrod and Holly, the never ending story.

They helped the brothers carry their suitcases out to where the van was parked, Serik running towards it when it came into view.

“I missed you the most, baby.” He said affectionately, patting the hood and jumping up into the driver's side.

Climbing into the back of the van with Jarrod, Otabek sat against the wall with his friend. It reminded him of gig nights, when they would take the van to the venue and play for an hour or so, get drunk, and then crash in the back while Serik or Holly drove them home and helped them into the house. Summer presented itself with more opportunities for late-night memories; gigs, parties, kickbacks. Summer was the time when their house was always full, from the night until the morning. People would slowly drift away, only to end up sleeping on the couch the very next night.

Otabek would never say it out loud, because he had missed his family, he really did. But he had also grown bored. He had come out here for a reason, and now he was back. Another whirlwind Summer was the exact craving he wanted satisfied the most.

Digging in the pocket of his jacket, Jarrod pulled out a folded Nerds rope, offering it out to Otabek first.

“Want some?”

Chuckling, he nodded and leaned forward to bite off the top half of the candy. As the artificial flavors settled on his tongue and the van bumped along down the highway, Otabek had a few embers of hope burning in his mind. Would this Summer be any different than any before it? Perhaps, in the sense that with Serik around, he might remember more. Perhaps not, because what Serik wasn’t around to see after he went to bed wouldn’t hurt him.

Either way, whatever it took, he was going to have a lot of fun.

 

***

“We’re going to a party tomorrow,” Holly announced happily over dinner that night, white and red take-out boxes strewn across the table the boys all sat around. “to celebrate your return, of course. And the return of another close friend.”

“You have other friends besides us? Unloyal.” Serik teased, hidden behind a curtain of noodles as he transferred them from the middle of the table onto his plate.

She smirked, her feet resting underneath her where she kneeled by the window. She had her back to them, watering the plants that lived on the windowsill. “He just got off tour. Well, a string of gigs on the east coast, at least. This is the first party he’s throwing now that he’s moved here.”

“Who is it?” Jarrod immediately interjected, trying far too hard to conceal his interest.

Holly turned her head, her feathery lashes guarding her nonchalance. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Serik’s eyes were suddenly much wider, but he refrained from saying anything as he stuffed noodles into his mouth. Beside him, leaning back in his chair, Otabek sipped at his diet coke through a pink silly straw. He could almost feel the ice in the air between them, and he really began to wonder what had been going on the entire time he and Serik were in Almaty, and the two of them were alone in the house.

“It’s an old friend of mine from the city, the good old days. He was dating the drummer of this post-hardcore band, but they broke up. Well, he stopped sleeping with him, at least. The band is unfortunately still very much together.”

Holly stood, brushing her hands off as she crossed the floor towards where Jarrod was sitting. Wordlessly, she took the carton of walnut shrimp that was in front of his plate and carried it with her back to the opposite side, sitting at the head of the table.

Smirking, Otabek innocently stirred the noodles around his plate. “So, you coming with us to this party, Jar?”

Still looking bamboozled at the treatment, he just shrugged and raked a hand through his pink hair.

“I’ll have to check my schedule.”

 

***

 

In the morning, Otabek called Armand to tell him he was back from Almaty.

His friendship with Armand was a unique one. The only time they really talked was when Otabek was in the chair, and when that happened it was more or less a therapy session. Otabek supposed it was how people sometimes opened up to their hairdresser, only with more needles involved. The last time, when he’d gotten the mountainscape on his back, he’d told Armand more than he had ever expected to. He’d been in the chair for hours initially, and then back again for shading and coloring details later. So when Otabek called, Armand just assumed.

“You coming back for another fix?” he joked, and Otabek appreciated his ironic humor.

He hadn’t been thinking about getting anything, but with the offer on the line, he took the leap. He said he would, that night. It would give him something to do while Holly and Serik were getting ready. When Armand asked what he was thinking of, Otabek just told him to surprise him. It was the first time he was agreeing to tattoo his body without knowing what the hell he was going to end up with, but he kind of liked the idea of that. Armand knew him really well, what would that result in? Hopefully he wouldn’t suggest a tramp stamp that read “Мудак”.

After hanging up the phone, Otabek looked around his room. It was the first time he’d gotten a good look at it in the daylight since returning, and it was even more of a mess than he’d remembered it being. Sighing and throwing his legs over the side of the bed, he resolved to clean it.

He returned with a trash bag and a cup of coffee, and got to work. It was like community service, stuffing empty beer cans and litter into the bag. He sorted and organized and put away, all while his favorite playlist sounded in the background from his phone.

Cleaning his room forced him to remember everything that had happened there, and it caused an odd twist in his gut. With all the time he had spent there, wasted there, when was the last time anything that had happened there mattered?

He had some good memories, of course. Sunday mornings when Serik would crawl into his bed, like when they were kids, and they'd spend the morning watching videos on YouTube and laughing over jokes that didn't make sense.

He'd met Holly right there, when she was the only one around to nurse him through withdrawals after that time he'd gone overboard. He still remembered her, softer than she was now.

Of course, he remembers the beginning. When he had known Jarrod for the whole of a week and decided to move in with him. They had looked around the house, assessing all the rooms before determining which ones they would claim as their own. Jarrod had wanted the attic room with the circular window. He had been so excited, moving all his thrift store oddities and rare vinyls up the stairs in box after box, never complaining about the trek.

For Otabek, having a room just meant having a bed and a place to keep his guitar and his clothes, nothing more.

Looking around it now, more had accumulated. There were photo booth strips of the four of them, others with just him and serik. There was a bulletin board full of ticket stubs pinned into its surface, posters lining the walls. He'd even let Jarrod gift him a record player for a holiday he didn't recognize, but it was pretty cool once he found he could listen to anything on vinyl and it sounded like the first time he'd ever heard the band.

He had a TV in the corner, but he couldn't recall ever actually turning it on to watch a movie.

His bed took up the majority of the room, more than enough room for two. Sometimes, it was just enough room. The vast majority of nights, it felt too big, the other side not occupied by himself being left cold so that when he turned in his sleep, it shocked him awake.

Once everything was clean, the room felt a little brighter. He threw away his trash, made his bed, and slipped on his favorite leather jacket.

He eyed the coffee tin that sat on his dresser. It was an ugly yellow tin, so obviously not meant for decoration when he really looked at it. He considered what would happen if he just threw it out with the rest of the trash, hundreds of dollars worth of product in the garbage.

Instead, he walked over to it, and lifted the lid. On second thought, he closed it.

On third thought, he put a baggie into the right pocket of his jacket, and closed the door behind him without another thought.

 

***

If there was one thing he could rely on in his life, it was that Armand would always be happy to see him when he walked into the shop.

He didn't like Otabek when they first met. The fact that he had been sleeping with Armand’s sister and never called her back probably had something to do with that preconceived notion that Otabek was a self-interested jerk, like all the other band guys that hung around.

Of course, over the years, he got to know him better, seen that there was more to him. He always had some sort of sagely advice to impart upon Otabek, mostly because he claimed he could see the future.

As Otabek followed him back into the drawing room where the sketch Armand had made laid out on top of a light box, he had a million predictions on what his new ink could possibly be. As usual, Armand managed to surprise him.

“A flower, really?” Otabek questioned, sounding off-put.

“It's a lotus, Beks.” The older (much more muscular) man defended. “I picked it for you because after you called this morning, I meditated and a vision came to me.”

Otabek had to sit in the stool and cup his chin, pretending to look closer at the sketch, to keep from laughing.

“The lotus is a symbol of rebirth.” Armand continued. “And I have a strong feeling that after tonight, there will be a rebirth for you, a distinct ‘before’ and ‘after’ line when you look back on this time.”

Otabek’s brow quirked up, “What, like we’ll meet an agent or something? Get signed?”

Armand crossed his arms and smirked. “Do you want the ink or not?”

Sighing, Otabek stood and walked out of the room and over to the chair, discarding his jacket and pulling his shirt over his head.

For placement, they decided on the back of his neck, between where his undercut ends and the peak of the mountains spanning across his shoulders begin. It's almost as if the lotus is the sun over the city.

Once Armand gets to work, Otabek is so at ease he could practically fall asleep right there. They don’t talk much, and it’s unusual for them. The longer it goes on, Otabek starts to suspect that Armand really does know something he doesn’t know.

“Are you going to put color on it?” he wonders aloud, hoping to get the other man talking.

“Not tonight, you’ll be coming back for it in a week, so i’ll have it ready then.”

Otabek huffs, half laughter and disbelief. “Unbelievable. You really need to lay off the grass, man.”

Silence falls again between them, and neither of them speak again until a half-hour later when the bell over the front door rings, and Otabek’s roommates announce their arrival twice with their loud chatter.

“Finish up Beka, it’s party time!” Holly announces, catching the attention of the other customers and artists in the shop immediately.

Otabek groans and hides his face, pretending he can’t see them. That only makes them more insistent.

“C’mon, Serik is waiting in the van, and if i’m going you’re coming with me.” Jarrod demands.

Armand finishes up in ten minutes, and drills the usual aftercare spiel he always says while bandaging the tattoo. Otabek puts his shirt back on and throws his jacket over his shoulder, giving Armand a half-hug and his thanks.

“No problem Beks, see you in a week. I’ll have the chair by the sofa ready and everything.”

Otabek gives him a quizzical look but doesn’t try to decode what Armand says, figuring it will all make sense in time.

In the van, the sound of Green Day was bumping through the speakers, and Serik greeted him with a smile when he hopped into the back of the van next to him.

Studying Otabek’s newest addition to his skin, Serik laughed. “Another leaf, Otya?”

Grinning, Otabek pulled him under his arm, ruffling his hair.

 

The house Holly drove them to was a typical San Francisco townhouse, and as they trekked up a hill from where they had parked, Otabek could already hear music. He kept an arm around Serik, warning him of potential danger.

“If you're going to drink, let me get it for you. And whatever you do, don't follow anyone into the bathroom.”

Serik made a face. “Why would I want to watch someone else piss?”

That made Otabek smile, and he kissed his brother’s forehead, much to his protest. “So innocent. You just stay that way.”

Once inside the house Holly was gone like a shooting star, a flurry of blue hair making her rounds with people she knew from home. Jarrod was born and bred in California, so he knew no one and he didn't relate to any of them. It was a far cry from the private school kids he’d grown up around, or the skaters he hung around now. Otabek was in a similar limbo, in the sense that he clung to the wall at parties, tending to prefer the role of observer to the madness. Serik was the opposite, flourishing under Holly’s wing as he socialized.

In the living room, where a cluster of people had migrated to and formed a makeshift dancefloor, the music had a heartbeat. It pulsed, the commanding bassline oozing with the need for attention, for sweaty bodies to writhe to its spell.

Otabek leaned against the half-wall that hid the stairs behind it, one foot up on the drywall and his hands in his pockets. His mind was on a smoke break, but his eyes were on the crowd.

He was sort of pissed that Holly had convinced him to come to this party. It was sort of like being invited to a birthday party as a child, only it was for a kid who went to a different school.

All the east coast people who were there dressed the same, they all looked way too put together, too clean. It was all so forced, a play on trying so hard to be cool.

Otabek watched them dance, a mix of dyed hair and piercings and so much tight black denim. Everyone he laid eyes on looked just like someone else dancing next to them.

All of a sudden, mid-misery, Otabek heard someone yell out from the middle of the crowd, a battle cry of “Get the fuck off me, you asshole!”

_In Russian._

His interest triggered, Otabek moved a few feet over, so that he could have a better few of the bodies gathered at the core of the room. There, right in the middle of all the attention, was someone lithe and blonde and _angry._

The stranger was pushing someone else away from them, their pale face flushed at the cheeks. The person being pushed had their hands up in defense, eyes wide at the confrontation as the stranger poked an accusing finger at his chest. They were still yelling loudly in Russian, and from what Otabek could gather between bits drowned out by the music, the guy had gotten a little too hands-on with the blonde.

The stranger then proceeded to tell the other person exactly where they could put their hands, and Otabek hid his chuckle behind his hand. The little blonde was certainly very creative in his insults. The other person walked away, moving as far from the blonde as he could. Otabek’s attention, however, was completely captured.

The amazing thing was that the blonde went right back to dancing as if nothing had happened. His eyes closed, his hands were up, and he moved to the music, uncaring of anyone around him.

He had a beautiful face, all angles softened by the dim yellow light overhead. His hair was long, hitting just below his shoulders, and halfway pulled up. When he danced, the little pony on the back of his head bounced around cutely. It was odd to describe someone as cute who, just seconds before, had looked like he was prepared to kill a man.

He was wearing blue jeans, old and real denim, with large holes ripped down the middles. Through them Otabek could see long, thin legs wrapped in black fishnets. He had on all-black high-tops, the kind that Serik had lusted over at the mall the week before in Almaty, only these had a platform heel to them. Eyes roaming up, Otabek could see he was wearing a New York Dolls shirt, the bottom half of it cut off in a ragged edge.

Of all the people there, the blonde was the coolest person he'd ever seen.

Otabek watched him dancing until the song ended, and the blonde let his arms fall to his sides, the sway of his hips slowing. Then, he opened his eyes, to reveal the most beautiful green-blue color, the perfect jade.

Those eyes were looking right at him.

It wasn't so odd for someone to be staring at him. A lot of girls stared at him, boys too. Otabek had never given too much thought to which he preferred. What wasn't so common was for Otabek to look back, meet a stranger’s gaze, and hold it. There was something that drew him in, something about those eyes. They were strong, fighting eyes. Something in them was intimidating, powerful. Dangerous. They were the eyes of someone who didn't go down without a hell of a fight. A soldier’s eyes reflecting back in his own.

If Otabek’s eyes flickered away for just a moment, he would see how many other eyes were tracking the blonde. He was at the center of the floor, the gravitational pull in the magnetic force of the house, of the dance floor.

He paused, his limbs still at his sides, and then moved towards Otabek with all the prowl in his movements of a tiger hunting fresh prey.

Otabek stood there and let him corner him, his head against the wall and his neck bared for the feast. He expected the little blonde to press against him, his eyes to droop into a doe-like shape, and the pink tint to return to his cheeks as he whispered his name in Otabek’s ear. Instead, what he got was a knowing smirk and two palms pressed to the wall on either side of his head, entrapping him.

“You're Otabek Altin.”

He hadn't been expecting that. No one here was supposed to know who he was, so how did the little blonde already have the upper hand on him?

“I'm Holly’s friend.” He explained, as if reading Otabek’s mind. “I saw you guys play at the rosemont pub one time, you're decent.”

Otabek huffed a laugh, still in half-shock that he'd so easily let a stranger pin him to the wall. He was nothing if not amused by the turn of situation.

“Thank you. . . ” he murmured, trailing off when he realized he hadn't yet acquired one minor detail.

“Yuri,” the blonde supplied, and it was getting creepy, the apparent mind reading thing. Maybe this was all an elaborate prank that Holly and Armand were in on together. There was no way such a pretty little blonde with a thick Russian accent and eyes he wanted to get addicted to would just walk right up to him and press him into a wall. “Yuri Plisetsky.”

What came next was definitely some sort of a cosmic joke.

Nirvana’s _drain you_ came on through the stereo, and at the exact moment Kurt Cobain’s voice filled the house and someone who was clearly a fan of the song choice cheered excitedly in the background (probably Jarrod. They both agreed it was the best Nirvana song of all time), Yuri leaned in close to him. He cupped his cheek, those inescapable eyes flickering over Otabek’s features and looking for any sign of hesitance at the nearness of him. When none was found, he pressed further.

_One baby to another said I'm lucky to’ve met you._

Yuri kissed him, and it felt like he was pressing a dying rose to his mouth. Soft, still so soft, but the petals were curling and withering. And the smell of him was intoxicating, enough to pull him under.

So he let it.

His fingers intertwined with strands of pale hair, and his hand crept over the exposed flesh of Yuri’s hip, and he pulled him closer so that he could get more of him.

The thing about a line of cocaine that made it so satisfying was the fast rush of doing it, the quick draw in and the almost direct hit to the brain.

Kissing Yuri felt better than that.

And like with a line, it was over far too fast, as Yuri pulled away from him, his eyes looking over Otabek’s face like he was seeing a person for the first time. Otabek’s lips were parted, ready to say something, or chase another hit and kiss him again, but Yuri spoke first.

“We should get out of here.”

Blood rushed through Otabek like he had been hanging upside down on his bed, and with the look settling into Yuri’s eyes, one of determination, he had a feeling that's exactly where they headed.

Of course, Otabek Altin knew nothing and the universe was actually having a really good laugh about it.

Yuri took his hand and pulled him away from the chaos. Only, he didn't direct him to the staircase behind them or the front door to the right of them. Instead, he followed Yuri to the kitchen. Surprisingly, and blissfully, they were alone.

“Open the window.” He instructed, letting go of Otabek’s hand and moving towards the refrigerator.

Without considering why, Otabek did as he was told, leaning over the kitchen sink and pushing the glass pane up.

“You can go out there, I’m just grabbing some big kid juice.” Yuri added, hidden from view behind the fridge door.

Climbing through a kitchen window onto a fire escape was not how Otabek expected to spend his night at a strange party, but if a strange blonde was coming out after him he would be wherever he was told to be.

The night air was cool, a welcome relief from the packed house with too many people breathing the same air.

Yuri pushed out a six pack of Smirnoff ice, Otabek taking it in his lap to clear the space for Yuri to crawl out to join him.

As Yuri shut the window behind them, the noise of the house was slightly muffled, like he was listening to the music through a layer of pillow. He leaned against the railing across from Otabek, their knees touching where they sat cross-legged on the small metal landing.

They each took a bottle, and Yuri took a long first sip before he spoke.

As was quickly becoming pattern, Otabek didn't know what to expect from the Russian’s mouth.

“Are you fucking anyone right now?”

Of course, he said it in Russian too, and somehow that made it less shocking.

“At this very moment?” Otabek smirked, taking a swig. “Not yet.”

YurI rolled his eyes and put his bottle down between his legs, leaning back comfortably on his palms.

“I meant dating someone. Do you have a girlfriend?”

A sly smile never leaves Otabek’s lips. “So you kiss me, and ask if I have a girlfriend after the fact?”

Yuri shrugged nonchalantly. “I wanted to.”

“Well, i don't have a girlfriend.” Otabek answered. “Or a boyfriend.”

Yuri tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, and the way his eyes raked over Otabek, scanned him, it didn't make him uncomfortable. Usually when he was around new people, showing his cards was like picking teeth. With Yuri, he wanted to lay them all in front of him, flat on the table.

“So what's your story?” He asked instead, hoping to sneak a peek at a few of Yuri’s cards.

Yuri’s ensuing laughter sounded cynical. “What is the story of every orphan from Russia?

“I don't know, I asked for yours.”

Yuri smiled at him, and then tore his gaze away, looking out at the city below them.

“My dad was gone before I was born. I don't know if he died or chose to leave, either way he's probably dead now. My mother was a heroin addict, but before that she was one of the most successful ice dancers in history.”

Yuri took a long swig of his drink, leaving it pressed to his lips as his knees curled to his chest. Otabek listened intently, memorizing both the cards he was shown and every beautiful detail of Yuri’s profile.

“My grandpa was pretty cool, he watched over me for a while. When he died, I was thankfully adopted and didn't die too in the orphanage. Not so thankfully, my adopted dad was a little too hands-on with my adopted sister. After that, I bounced around foster homes and moved around until I turned eighteen a while back. The last few months, I was living with my boyfriend in Jersey, but then he was having a little too much fun with with my friend Rachel.”

Otabek smirked, taking another sip before he spoke. “Did he get in with Joey and Phoebe too?”

Yuri looked puzzled, and then all at once he was laughing, the beautiful sound of it filling the night air, and he leaned forward on his knees to push at Otabek’s shoulder playfully. “You're an asshole.”

Otabek took Yuri’s wrist in his hand, holding him there and preventing him from moving away.

“And your boyfriend was an idiot.”

This time, Otabek kissed Yuri. There was no pulling away, only a falling forward. Yuri crawled into Otabek’s lap, sitting there with open legs straddling him and an open mouth inviting him in. Yuri’s tongue tasted sweet gliding against his own, but the smell of him so close was almost saccharine. If this was what finally made him overdose, Otabek would go down smiling.

Then, just like the first time, Yuri cut off his supply. Otabek tried to follow his lips, Yuri laughing softly against him, pressing a quick peck to his lips.

“You’re not getting out of telling your story too, Altin.” He smirked, biting his lip when Otabek moved to plant kisses on his neck.

“Holly talks too much, you probably know everything already.” He replied, putting his drink down to pulls Yuri closer, wrap both his arms around Yuri’s hips like vines.

“I don’t care what Hols said, I asked you.” Yuri quipped, Otabek’s own words thrown back at him.

“Fine, but i’m going to be brutally honest.” Otabek warned. “You might not want to kiss me any longer after I say it.”

Yuri bit into his bottom lip again and god was it torture. Otabek wanted to taste that bottom lip again. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

Otabek sighed, his fingers drawing invisible patterns into the exposed skin of Yuri’s back. He couldn’t look him in the eye, not those perfect green-blue eyes. He would get lost. So he talked to Johnny Thunders on Yuri’s shirt instead.

“The truth is, I had a great childhood. My family is wonderful, and I grew up in a beautiful house. My parents worked hard to give us, my siblings and me, anything we could ever want. And what I wanted was what I used to see in _Rolling Stone_. I moved here so that I could bang groupies, snort all the coke I want to, and be in a rock band.”

He expects Yuri to deflate in disappointment, finding that Otabek is a carbon copy of every other band dude on the scene. They all had the same story, more or less, only Otabek wasn’t mad at his dad and he didn’t come from some shitty mid-western town.

“And how’s that working out for you?”

He looked up from the unchanging face of Johnny Thunders to Yuri, who’s wearing a Cheshire cat grin. Otabek realized his cards were slipping from his hands and landing face up, much faster than he’d anticipated. He made no move to hold them closer, not with those jade eyes on him.

“I got everything I ever wanted.”

Yuri looked a little sad at that. “And let me guess, you still feel an emptiness inside you, one that will never be filled, no matter how many thousands of people scream your name when you’re onstage?”

He put the back of his hand to his forehead, leaning back in Otabek’s hold with dramatic flair. Otabek wanted to tell him that the opposite was true, that he’d never felt so full and alive and hopeful before that night, but he didn’t want to spoil what they had going.

“You’re an asshole too, you know?” He said instead, and that earned him another kiss.

They kissed for a long stretch of time, an exploration of each other’s mouths, hands mapping out unexplored skin. The kissing eventually became intermittent, a pause between drinking and talking. They alternated between all three, huddled together with Yuri sitting on top of him on the fire escape, the party inside the house a comforting background soundtrack of music and voices as they stayed alone together.

They alternated until all the Smirnoff ice was gone, and Yuri was resting his head on Otabek’s chest, warm and twice as affectionate now that he was buzzed. Otabek had to admit they hadn’t finished the pack evenly, he’d been too distracted by jade eyes and a flash of a smile to drink so much.

“I love that song you wrote, by the way. Illusions.” Yuri mentioned, his fingers clutching the neck of the last bottle and his body fully leaning on Otabek. Then, he sang softly, a lovely lilting sound. “ _The way you're looking in your sleep, the way you're looking when you leap. The strange illusions that you keep. You don't know that I'm noticing_.”

Otabek curled his fingers into Yuri’s soft hair, combing through it as he held him. “Thanks. That song is about a hooker sticking a gram down the front of my pants on Sunset.”

Yuri laughed again and Otabek could feel the way he moved against him, another hit of his perfume flowing into him, straight to the brain.

“You’re a real asshole, Altin.”

Once all the drinks were well and truly gone and they had made their jaws sore from kisses and laughter, Yuri crawled out of his lap and moved to open the window.

“I’m not sleeping with you tonight, by the way.” Yuri mentioned, his backside on full display as he crawled through the window. “I never sleep with band guys on the first night.”

“What about regular guys?” Otabek joked as he followed, pulling the pack of empty bottles behind him and shutting the window.

With his feet on the kitchen floor, he kissed Yuri where he sat on the countertop, his legs open to fit Otabek between them. Unlike the fire escape though, his supply was cut off again all too quick, and it left his head spinning when Yuri rushed out of his arms at an all too familiar Jersey accent.

“Yuri! I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” Holly exclaimed as she stumbled into the kitchen.

The blonde rushed to meet the blue-haired girl, jumping to wrap his legs around Holly. She failed to support his feather-light weight and tumbled to the floor in bubbly laughter, stroking each other’s hair affectionately.

“Everyone is leaving, It’s three in the morning, Yuri. I thought you had left with someone but you were with Otabae the whole time!” Holly giggled wildly, and Otabek noticed her shoes were missing.

“I’m going to go round up the boys.” Otabek smirked, leaving the two friends to become reacquainted. He figured he’d already acquainted himself with Yuri enough for one night.

Outside the kitchen, the house was a hungover version of what it had been when Otabek had last seen it. The living room was almost empty, just a few people lingering around. A couple humping half-heartedly on the sofa, a guy passed out and shirtless with swedish fish candies spelling out “Dick” on his chest, and a girl drinking on the bottom step of the stairs, her teased hair looking like a bird’s nest.

He found Holly’s shoes and Jarrod in the same place. They were in the upstairs bathroom, in the bathtub. He didn’t ask questions, and thankfully Jarrod was too drunk and high to supply answers, so he dragged him along to find Serik.

They found him in what Otabek could only assume was Yuri’s bedroom, unpacked boxes lining the walls. He was fast asleep, curled up at the end of the bed like a pet cat. Two girls were sitting at the head of the bed, giggling and leaning into each other. When Otabek walked into the room, they stopped talking to stare at him. He didn’t meet their eyes, pacing around the bed to gently shake his brother awake.

“You girls didn’t give him anything, right?”

The redhead on the left shook her short hair. “He made a milkshake and we slipped a little vodka in it, but he drank a bottle of water with it and then crashed.”

“Thanks.” He muttered, and Serik smiled up at him when he stretched out, his eyes blinking open.

“Hey _ағам,_ I survived my first big American party.” He grinned, standing up from the bed without stumbling.

“You slept through most of it,” Otabek corrected, throwing an arm over his shoulder and leading him downstairs with Jarrod trailing behind them, still holding Holly’s shoes dutifully. “Which is a blessing, really.”

Returning to the kitchen, Yuri and Holly were laid out on top of the kitchen table like they were at the beach tanning, giggling secrets to each other. At the sight of Jarrod, Holly hopped off the table and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him open-mouthed and sloppy in front of everyone. Serik looked a bit confused, thinking he’d missed something while he’d been asleep, but Otabek knew better. They’d be fighting again the next morning when they crashed.

Yuri got up from the table and stumbled his long limbs into his arms like a baby deer, white teeth flashing in an intoxicated smile.

“You weren’t this drunk when I left you.” Otabek noted, a matching grin spreading across his face. It wasn’t fair that he so easily bought into everything Yuri did, every move he made, already.

“We might have finished off the Jell-o shots.” The blonde explained in a giggle, clinging to Otabek’s shoulders.

“The peach one was the best!” Holly exclaimed, one leg hitched over Jarrod’s hip.

“Alright, my brother is going to drive us home now. Up you go.” He said, easily lifting Yuri up into his arms bridal-style. Yuri made no protest, burying his face in Otabek’s neck instantly.

Otabek carried Yuri to the van, Jarrod and Holly stumbling behind the whole way down the hill. They almost lost them, because the two wouldn’t stop pausing in the middle of the street to make out. Serik opened the back doors of the van and Otabek carefully put Yuri down, sitting him on the back bumper.

“Are you kidnapping me?” Yuri smirked, looking around the van with wonder. He eyed the mattress and started crawling towards it.

“You’re coming willingly.” Otabek quipped back, following him.

Yuri laid down on the mattress and Otabek curled in beside him, pressing their foreheads together and letting his arm fall to Yuri’s waistline.  
“Cold.” Yuri mumbled in complaint, shivering in his arms. Otabek reached for his leather jacket where he had abandoned it before the party, blanketing it over Yuri. Smiling, Yuri tucked his head under Otabek’s chin, and closed his eyes.

Otabek closed his too, but he could still hear Serik struggling to convince Jarrod and Holly to get into the van to go home, the tell-tale slur of drunk voices beginning to argue.

By the time everyone was in the van and it was moving down the San Francisco hills, Yuri and Otabek had fallen fast asleep.

 

***

The next morning, Otabek woke up to the sound of groaning and Russian swear words.

He blinked his eyes open slowly, confused that it was still dark. There was just enough light to see a flurry of blonde hair when he opened his eyes, though.

Taking a moment to look up and assess his surroundings, Otabek realized no one had bothered to wake them up and had left them in the van, parked in the shade of the garage with a window cracked open. Yuri had turned over in his sleep, his back pressed flush against Otabek’s chest.

He decided to announce that he was awake too, brushing Yuri’s hair back and planting a soft kiss just below his ear. Instantly, Yuri turned to face him, curling and burying his face into the other’s chest.

“I shouldn't have done those Jell-O shots with Hols.” he said miserably, and Otabek did his best to comfort him, stroking his hair.

For a while, they stayed quiet, letting the morning soak into them, wake them up.

“It’s hot and i’m hungover.” Yuri whined, extracting himself from Otabek’s arms and sitting up on the mattress. In contradiction to his complaints, he stuffed his arms into the leather jacket that had served as his blanket.

“Let’s get out of here.” He decided, and if Otabek had learned anything in the last twelve hours, it was that he didn’t know where Yuri was taking him, but he would follow.

Yuri crawled off the bed and stole Holly’s red heart-shaped sunglasses from where they lay on the floor, throwing the back doors of the van open. Otabek followed behind, and when they were standing in the driveway with the doors closed behind them, Yuri took his hand.

“All bets are off, by the way.” He smirked, looking up at Otabek with those ridiculous glasses that somehow managed to look sexy when he wore them. “I said I don’t sleep with band guys on the first night, but look what’s happened.”

Yuri was grinning, a hand curled around Otabek’s neck and his fingers outlining where the bandage from his new ink began, his face so close that he was only inches away from his lips.

“I was daisy fresh, Altin, and look what you’ve done to me.”

Otabek gripped his jutting hips in his hands and pressed forward to kiss him hard, something far too intimate for a driveway in the early morning.

With a startling realization, Otabek knew he wanted him. Of course, objectively, he’d known that, but it grew deeper, flooding his veins. He wanted to press Yuri right there against the van and get on his knees for him. He wanted to hear what Yuri’s moans sounded like against the shell of his ear. He wanted to touch every inch of skin that was covered, with his hands and his lips.

He wanted to get addicted to him.

Again, devastatingly, Yuri pushed him away, but with the way his breath was shuddering and his kiss-bitten lips trembled, it looked like he really didn’t want to.

“Come on,” Yuri said shakily, trying to regain composure and control. “Let’s grab some food.”

Yuri led him by the hand down the street, turning a corner and heading towards a lonely-looking Waffle House.

“How did you know this was here? You just got into town.” Otabek wondered, and Yuri laughed lightly.

“I make it a point to know where all the diners are. It’s the one redeeming feature of this hell country besides its music.”

Otabek couldn’t argue with that.

Yuri slid into a booth and grabbed a syrup-sticky laminated menu, Holly’s sunglasses still on. He only took them off when the waitress brought over a fresh pot of coffee, pouring Yuri a cup.

He smiled at her thankfully and put his feet up on the other side of the booth where Otabek was sitting with his legs comfortably spread, the heel of one shoe resting on Otabek’s inner thigh and slowly pushing forward, making him jump slightly before regaining his own composure, nodding wordlessly when the waitress asked if he wanted coffee as well. Across the table, Yuri smirked wickedly.

They ordered a scramble of fried potatoes, eggs, and bacon, which Yuri described as “the perfect hangover cure”. Otabek would let him eat all the bacon, as long as he kept his foot where it was.

Amazingly, after the hours they had spent the night before, they hadn’t run out of things to talk about. Otabek had never thought of himself as interesting, so he’d never bothered to share much with anyone he was getting to know. Maybe that’s why no one stuck around for long. He’d always liked it that way, but not now. Not with Yuri.

With Yuri, he didn’t even have to think about it. He didn’t have to force English, constantly filtering himself to make sure he was using the right words and he wasn’t misunderstood. He could talk comfortably, about anything, and he didn’t have to water down anything that he had done. Yuri had plenty of stories on his own, trying to one-up him at times.

“You look good in my jacket.” He observed during a pause in conversation.

Yuri was leaning forward with one fist resting on his cheek, stirring his coffee idly.

“I know.” He quipped, an instant comeback.

Otabek looked at him, he couldn’t stop looking. Yuri didn’t seem bothered by the attention at all, staring back at him through the golden fringe of his hair.

It was getting to the point where Otabek was about to say something crazy, something like We should get out of here. Only he knew exactly where he wanted to take Yuri, and it wasn’t a fire escape or a breakfast dinner.

“I’ll be right back, try not to miss me too much.” Yuri said, foiling his plans. He took his foot away from where it was providing a tortuous pressure and Otabek had to bite back a groan, watching him standing up and walk away, his hands moving to curl into the pockets of Otabek’s jacket as he walked towards the restrooms.

Otabek poked at the plate they’d been sharing in his absence, leaning forward on his fist now. A loop of Yuri walking away playing in his mind, the sway of his hips, the arch of his back. The blonde hair thrown over one shoulder of the leather, Yuri’s pale fingers curling into the warm, soft pockets. . .

Otabek’s fork clattered against the plate, and the realization sent a chill through him.

His jacket. The one with a full baggie of pure powder cocaine in the pocket, and Yuri had surely just curled his fingers around it.

Sitting there stunned still in the booth, Otabek considered how it could play out.

It wasn’t so bad, Yuri knew he probably wasn’t joking with what he had said the night before. So maybe he would leave it, pretend like it wasn’t there at all. Or, maybe he’d be kind of pissed, taking it as proof that Otabek really was a stereotype, and flush it down the toilet. Maybe it would really make him mad, and he’d strom out and throw the jacket back to him and yell that he never wanted to see Otabek again. That thought terrified him the most. He really wanted to see Yuri again, preferably in his jacket. Maybe only his jacket.

Standing and quickly making his way to the men’s room door, Otabek tried the door. Locked, and no response from inside. He leaned against it, drew in a breath, and knocked.

“Ocupado.” Yuri’s now familiar voice sounded sarcastically from the other side of the door, muffled by the wood. “Find somewhere else to put your shit.”

Otabek smirked. He liked this guy too much, more than he ever had anyone else, it would be a real shame if it was all about to be over.

“It’s me.”

The door opened only three heartbeats later, he counted. Yuri pulled him in quick and locked the door back behind him. His fringe was pinned back now, revealing his beautiful eyes, looking wide and young as they looked up at Otabek.

“Look, I don’t know if you’re one of those guys, but don’t get pissed. I can replace it if you want.”

Otabek’s brow knit in confusion, and his eyes wandered over to the mirror they were standing in front of. A flash of white had caught the corner of his eye, and when he looked down on the counter, he saw it. The contents of the baggie had been emptied out and pushed into separated lines.

Seven of them.

“I’m sorry, I just haven’t had it in a while and I couldn’t help myself. It’s good shit, real clean.” Yuri was saying, but Otabek could barely hear him. He looked back at him, his expression etched with worry, and all Otabek could see were those wide jade eyes and, looking down to his slightly parted lips, a trace of white powder that had fallen onto the slight cupid’s bow of his pale lips, probably startled from the knock on the door.

“Fuck.” He heard his low voice whisper. He was already half-hard from Yuri’s teasing under the table, but this unexpected outcome was sending blood rushing south.

He couldn’t explain the order of what happened next. He wasn’t sure if it was their lips that met first, or Yuri’s back to the wall behind him, or their hips aligning and Otabek grinding against him. All he knew was that he was kissing Yuri the way he wanted to, needed to, and finally Yuri wasn’t going to push him away.

The first moan Yuri let slip into his mouth was a welcome taste on his tongue, and he clutched a fistful of blonde hair to anchor himself.

All he could taste was Yuri, all he could smell, all he could touch.

“Lift me up.” Yuri whispered desperately between a clash of kisses, and Otabek obeyed, lifting him up his thighs and hitching them over his hips, a delicious friction between them were their hips were getting acquainted. Yuri had his arms wrapped around Otabek’s neck, making it all the easier when Otabek moved to carry him across the room.

He made sure to sit him down on the opposite side of the sink from where the lines were, never breaking the kiss.

Stopping the movement of his hips, he moved his hand to palm Yuri through his jeans, the heel of it pressing against Yuri’s front zipper in retribution for his earlier treatment.

Yuri keened against his lips, cutting off in a desperate whine. He tried to talk to Otabek between kisses, his hands frantically moving to unbutton his pants.

“You do four, I’ll do the other three, so we’re even.” Yuri breathed out.

“Huh?” Otabek questioned, only concerned with making Yuri make more noise.

Yuri pointed his chin towards where the lines lay neatly on the counter, but Otabek didn't even let his eyes wander.

“No,” he said, diving in to kiss Yuri’s neck, his hand dipping below the waistband of Yuri’s underwear. “Not until after I'm done with you.”

That earned him another soft moan, and Otabek kissed lower and lower until sinking to his knees felt natural.

He moved his hands to finish unzipping Yuri’s jeans so that he could push them down his hips, but Yuri stopped him, cupping his jaw in two cold hands and forcing him to look up, and meet lust-blown green eyes.

“You're about to fuck up my whole life, aren't you?”

The look on his face sent a spark down the back of Otabek’s spine, lighting it up like a live wire. No one else had ever made him feel that way, that lightning inside of him striking, the melody of a song he hadn't heard yet starting in his head.

“I guess that depends on the perspective.”

Yuri smirked, the mischievous play on his lips working so well, like it always belonged there. Otabek matched it perfectly, as if the mirror was suddenly between them rather than behind.

Yuri helped Otabek pull down his jeans, gasping when Otabek’s warm mouth was drawn to the obvious outline of Yuri’s dick where it was tenting the fabric. His tongue lay flat over the head, tasting the damp spot that had formed there. He waited until Otabek looked up at him, deep brown eyes doing nothing to play innocence. He knew exactly what he was doing, and what he would do.

Yuri leaned back slightly, letting his head rest against the mirror, his eyes trained on Otabek’s.

“I like this perspective just fine.”

Otabek lowered his eyes, and after that he wanted to make sure Yuri didn’t say anything more, or couldn't.

Of course, he always got everything he wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And our lovebirds finally meet! Thoughts? Yuri isn't so innocent as everyone thinks from AF. . . 
> 
> Also, I accidentally dropped a few references to some of my favorite reads. Otabek's song illusions is from "Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist.", and of course There's a line from "Lolita" later, because why not.
> 
> The next chapter is going to be a ~~fuck fest~~ love fest so stay tuned for that! Please let me know what you think, either here or on tumblr. Also, if you could reblog [this post on tumblr ](http://onotherflights.tumblr.com/post/161649299162/l-u-c-k-y-s-e-v-e-n-by-onotherflights) and get more people reading this, I would love you forever!


	6. Roses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs used in this chapter:
> 
> Bad Behavior - The Maine

Eventually, Otabek and Yuri made it out of the diner’s bathroom. They paid quickly and walked out with knowing grins, half-concealed laughter as they were the only two in on the joke.

Hand in hand in the parking lot, Otabek wasn't quite sure what was next. His feet were moving as he followed Yuri, but he didn't ask where they were going until they were three blocks away and trekking up a familiar hill. He followed Yuri to the front door where he turned to face him, blocking the entranceway.

“Do you want to spend the night?” He asked curtly, not bothering with bullshit as Otabek was quickly learning to expect and appreciate.

“It’s ten in the morning.” Otabek replied flatly.

Yuri looked down pseudo-shyly, toying with the buckle of Otabek’s belt before pulling him forward by it suddenly, pressing their hips back together.

“Yeah, and I won't be finished with you until tomorrow at least.” He smirked against the shell of Otabek’s ear, planting insidious kisses along his jawbone to convince him. “So are you coming inside or not?”

Otabek pulls him back so that he can look into his eyes, his perfect face (god, how is he so perfect?) cupped in Otabek's warm hands. Otabek can't see the look on his own face, but if it's anything like what Yuri is reflecting back, then the hunger between them is undeniable. It almost hurts to be in public like that, the ugly world on their back. Anyone could walk by and see them looking at each other like that, and it feels like that would be wrong, the world intruding on what should be shaping in private.

All at once, Otabek wants to go missing with him. He wants to run away with him, to a place where no one they know would look for them. He wants to trap the two of them in a cave, the muffled sounds of the ocean the background as he dedicates every waking moment to ensuring that Yuri’s moans harmonize with the crash of the water.

He wants to be alone with his supply, and he wants to overdose as many times as he can.

“Can I have my one phone call before you take me in?” He murmured coyly.

Yuri smirked, nodded, and pulled him in for a lingering kiss.

“I'll be upstairs, starting without you.”

Otabek’s knees felt weak as Yuri escaped his hold and slipped into the house, closing the door behind him.

Before he could think twice about racing into the house, Otabek pulled his phone out and called Jarrod. While the idea of really going missing was incredibly romantic, the fuzzy memory of the last time he’d actually gone missing and almost died was enough of a guilt trip to call his roommates and make sure they knew where he was and not to bother him.

Jarrod didn't answer the phone, his chipper voicemail message sounding through the line.

_You've reached Jarrod Palmero, congratulations! To claim your prize, please leave a brief message after the beep that's coming up….not yet….any minute now… did you know that the secret to life is -_

Otabek didn't say anything when the beep cut off the prerecorded voice, just hung up the call.

He tried Holly next. He didn't really want to call Serik to tell him he wouldn't be home because he was going on a sex hiatus. They were close, but he wanted to be in denial that his baby brother had retained some sense of innocent youth for as long as he could.

He thought he was going to catch another voicemail when Holly finally picked up on the fourth ring, her usually airy voice sounding a pitch higher when she greeted him.“What do you want, Altin?”

“Hey Hols, I'm with Yuri. I don't know when I'll be back.”

“I know.” She replied quickly, feigning boredom. “I kind of figured it -” her voice cut off, and when she continued, it sounded strained, lower. “That I- _ah_. . .it would happen, he's your type.”

Otabek leaned against the doorframe, chuckling. “I wasn't aware I had a type.”

There was a long pause from the other end, and Otabek narrowed his eyes. He swore he could hear another voice, but muffled. He put the pieces together quickly enough, and his jaw dropped in scandal.

“Are you and Jarrod messing around? Is that why he didn't answer first?”

Holly made a soft, strained mewling sound and there was familiar laughter in the background that didn't come from her. 

“Fuck off, Altin.” Holly muttered, and hung up on him with her boyfriend (?) still laughing away from the receiver.

Pocketing his phone, Otabek rolled his eyes. He figured Jarrod and Holly were back on. He didn't understand Holly no matter how much he tried. He had a feeling Jarrod didn't either, but he did whatever he could to please her to make up for it. He and Otabek had that much more in common now.

Opening Yuri’s front door and locking it behind him, he looked around at the house now that it wasn't packed with people. It was still bare, new. Whoever had followed Yuri out from New York were good friends because they had cleaned up after themselves before leaving, though the backyard was surely still a mess of empty beer cans and a lonely deserted fire pit. It was strange to see the house so still and quiet when the night before it had felt like a punk rock jungle.

Taking the stairs two at a time, Otabek could hear noise coming from Yuri’s bedroom. 

As he rounded the corner, he could see American Beauty playing on the TV and Yuri sitting up with crossed legs on his bed, his lips at the mouth of a glass bong.

“Told you I was starting without you.” He said after a moment of seeing Otabek standing there, smoke pouring from him like a dragon.

The bong wasn't so shocking to Otabek, rather it was Yuri’s change of outfit that had him straining in his jeans, his throat going dry.

Yuri was wearing a black lace teddy, covering him from neck to hip but leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination. There was a triangle shaped cutout in the middle of his chest, and Otabek stood there for a moment longer, watching the way Yuri’s ribcage contracted when he lit up and then inhaled and exhaled another hit.

Having been satisfied, Yuri moved to put the bong back on his nightstand, the smoke still circling around him. Otabek could swear his heart dropped right to his balls when he saw that the back of the teddy was a thong.

He saw his jacket lying neatly over the end of the bed and he walked over towards it, but Yuri was quick to pounce. Otabek found himself being pulled in so he went willingly, groaning when Yuri pushed him down on the bed and straddled his hips.

“How’s the view?” Yuri smirked playfully, his hands resting flat on Otabek's chest.

Otabek let his hands wander down the side of Yuri’s body, feeling the lace fabric under his fingertips. Then he leaned his head up, craning until his could reach the exposed skin on Yuri’s pale tummy, and planted an affectionate kiss to the center of it, buried between the hills of his rib cage.

“I could get used to it.”

Yuri’s smile flashed wide and he scooted his body up so that when Otabek lay back down against the pillows, Yuri was lying on top of him, kissing his neck.

“Take your pants off.” He muttered quietly biting into warm skin, leaving his first mark.

It was a good distraction, Yuri’s teeth nipping at his skin, but Otabek managed to unbutton his jeans and push them down his hips, kicking his boots and socks off in tandem. His peeled the denim from his legs, despite Yuri being of no help.

That is until he was left only in his shirt and briefs, and Yuri was backing his hips up, slim fingers rushing to find the hem of Otabek’s t-shirt and crumple it in his fists, pulling the shirt up and over Otabek’s head to join the rest of his discarded wardrobe. He swooped in to steal another kiss from his lips before he set his palms down on the surface of Otabek’s abdomen and pushed his ass back, grinding his hips slowly. Otabek’s dick twitched at the attention, and he groaned low, sounding primal. He gripped Yuri’s hips, tried to control the way Yuri was grinding back on his cock, but Yuri only moved on his own accord, reveling in the way Otabek’s thumbs pressed into his hipbones.

“I could get used to you being hard between my legs.” Yuri murmured, biting back a smirk. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back, just indulging in the simplistic pleasure of the friction between their bodies, Yuri’s hips moving back and forth and Otabek thickening up under him, the bulge of his dick gliding between the cheeks of Yuri’s ass.

Otabek said nothing in reply, just tried to focus on his breathing and wondering if this was all real, or if he was about to wake up in the van with a lot of questions. As if to quell his unspoken fears, Yuri fell back against his chest, his hips still moving at a steady pace when he kissed Otabek again.

This kiss was unlike the last one; it was dirty and wet and longing. When his tongue slipped past pale lips, Yuri welcomed it into his mouth and sucked, moaning softly from the back of his throat.

“Are you going to lay me down and fuck me, or are we just going to dry hump all damn day?”

Otabek considered his options.

Not one of them involved leaving Yuri’s bed anytime soon.

“Or I could stay like this,” Otabek mused quietly, brushing Yuri’s golden hair back behind his ears so that he could see him better. “And you could fuck me.”

Yuri’s laughter ticked Otabek’s ear, and he nipped at it playfully. “As tempting an offer as that is, and it is very tempting, I wasn't asking for your input. At least not like that.”

The blonde leaned back up, looking down at Otabek beneath him like he was the one in control, because he was. In that moment, Otabek would do anything Yuri wanted him to do, and they both knew it.  

Yuri took Otabek’s hand from where it was circling his hip and brought it up to his mouth, letting two of Otabek’s fingers slide past his kiss-plumped lips. He wet the two digits with his tongue, looking at Otabek the whole time to gauge his reaction.

If it were anyone else, they would have thought Otabek wasn't feeling anything, because his face wasn't showing any expression. But Yuri wasn't looking over his face, he was looking at his eyes. Otabek felt like his thoughts were no longer his own, Yuri could read him so easily, just by his eyes.

Sliding the fingers out of his mouth with an unnecessarily teasing pop, Yuri used his other hand to reach behind himself, pulling the thong to the side.

“I really did mean it when I said I was starting without you, Beka.”

A spark ran down Otabek’s spine at he sound of the nickname dripping so easily from Yuri’s lips. He watched through half-lidded eyes as the blonde guiding his hand back, and at the same time his face inching closer as he leaned down on Otabek’s chest.

He gasped softly when the two spit-wet fingers breached past the ring of muscle and slid inside of him easily, and Otabek caught him in another kiss.

For a moment he explored everything soft and wet, guiding moans dripping into his mouth as he curled his fingers inside of Yuri, spread them apart.

“Add another.” Yuri murmured against his bottom lip, but Otabek shook his head.

“More lube, not going to hurt you.”

Yuri sat up slightly just so that Otabek could see him roll his eyes, then he reached behind Otabek’s head to retrieve the lube and a condom from where he’d hidden it under the pillow. He pushed the items at Otabek’s chest, pushing his hips back greedily at the same time.

Otabek huffed, pulling his fingers away slowly, and much to Yuri’s dismay. He made sure his fingers were well coated before pressing back in with three fingers, making Yuri’s eyelashes flutter and his jaw hang slack.

He held Yuri’s hip tight in the grip of one of his hands, the other working him open.

“That’s enough.” He murmured after only a moment, and Otabek hesitated but withdrew.

“Get on your knees.” He suggested, reaching for the condom that had landed next to him.

Yuri laughed, lilting and genuine, and crawled lower on his body, pulling his boxers down.

Insisting he knew what he was doing, Yuri took the foil packet from him and rolled it down Otabek’s dick. Otabek stroked himself twice, spreading the excess lubricant that he’d had on his fingers. Growing impatient, the blonde made a move to pin Otabek’s hands to the bed, but he was quick to catch delicate wrists first.

“Slow down Yuri,” He murmured, looking up into strong eyes, ready and determined despite how misty they were. “I want it to mean something.”

Yuri’s lip curled up, but it wasn’t quite so convincing. “What, this your first time?”

His tone was mocking, but his features softened twice over when Otabek pulled his wrists close, placing a kiss into the soft inner skin of each. “With you, yes.”

In a too-late attempt to hide the adoration in his eyes, Yuri leaned down to seize another kiss from Otabek’s waiting lips.

Eventually, Yuri leaned back, and Otabek watched intently as he positioned himself and carefully sunk down, Otabek holding his hips to guide him.

Yuri hadn't looked high before when he was leaning his head over the bong, but he looked high now. His eyes were half-shut and dreamy, his pink lips parted softly, shallow breaths passing between them. Finally, he was fully seated, and his eyes darted back up to Otabek’s.

“Oh, _fuck._ ” He murmured, quiet and intimate, his fingers ghosting over Otabek’s chest to hold him steady. He spoke like he was falling, that silent and perfect moment before the bliss of sleep (or death) overwhelmed a person.

And with the tide of his hips, he took Otabek down with him.

Otabek let wave after wave crash over him as Yuri moved against him, a tortuously slow push and pull. They made a beautiful mess of things, a flurry of  moving against each other, hands exploring, and Yuri’s back arched like the entrance to a secluded cave, his chest pushed out and towards Otabek like there was some invisible thread pulling him. Behind shallow breaths and soft moans, Otabek swore he could hear a storm building.

“Lay me down.” Yuri let out when he could no longer keep up, and Otabek cradled him in his arms and set him down against the bed, his yellow hair fanning around him on the pillow.

Otabek joined him again, pushing his legs back and reuniting their lips before he pushed back inside smoothly, letting their hips meet again. Yuri used the new angle to hold onto Otabek, all his soft and demanding moans told like secrets against the shell of his ear, pale fingers reaching up to grasp what he could of the brunette strands.

The thing about storms is that they feel like they go on for hours and hours, but in reality take up much less time. Even more, they tend to build back fast, a second and third tidal wave growing miles out at sea from the first one.

“I’m close.” Yuri murmurs to him, as if he couldn’t already tell, couldn’t feel the subtle shift in the sounds he was making, so soft and private, made just for him to hear.

“I got you.” He reassured, and when he touched Yuri through the lace he had decorated himself with, he cried out like he was hurt, and yet he clung to Otabek like he was the only thing keeping his head above the water.

Eventually he let go, and Otabek followed behind him, until they were panting and deflating in the other’s arms, Yuri’s long legs falling flat against the bed.

There was a moment where they stayed still, looking at each other. It was the calm between storms, when there were no words to explain the litany of thoughts running through each of their separate minds. Soon, Otabek narrowed it down to one simple question:  _Where had Yuri been all of his life?_

Yuri broke the gaze, pressing their foreheads together and closing his eyes. He whined softly when Otabek pulled out, weakly trying to lift his legs to wrap around Otabek, keep him close, keep him there.

“I’m just laying right here, Yuri.” He murmured, absolving himself by kissing each of Yuri’s closed eyelids, making the corners of his pink lips turn up.

He rolled over and lay flat on his back and watched Yuri turn on his side, flushed pink down to his chest and his eyes sleepy. He looked completely ravished, with his hair a frizzy mess and come leaking through the lace of his black teddy, one strap hanging loose on his shoulder. His eyes were dazed, the green in them misty in the fading morning sun. It would be raining soon.

“You look like an angel.” Otabek told him, the most sincere conviction in his voice. He cupped Yuri’s cheek easily in his palm, his thumb trailing affectionately against his soft bottom lip. Yuri smiled softly, and pushed his lips out to offer a gentle kiss to the pad of Otabek’s thumb.

“That's just the drugs talking.” He replied, instantly curling into his side, resting on his chest.

Otabek kissed him again, on the top of his head, and stroked his hair.

“I love that.” Yuri whispered, so he kept it up, soft golden silk passing under his fingertips.

They lay there quiet, naked and spent in the afterglow.

It wasn't a period of time Otabek was so familiar with. Usually, having someone clinging to him after sex would be more of a nuisance than anything, but Otabek just felt warm. Maybe it wasn't so fair to everyone else who had come before Yuri, everyone who had laid against his chest, against his heartbeat, and tried to make themselves fit so perfectly there. No one around him or beside him the way that Yuri did so completely.

They didn't even have to say anything, no forced small talk or questions of how it was.

Otabek looked up at Yuri’s ceiling fan swirling lazily on low above them, and he noticed there were little white stars littering the expanse of Yuri’s ceiling, waiting until night to join the glow.

He stared wordlessly up at the ceiling until Yuri demanded his attention again, pale legs tangling with his own and fingers trailing over his chest, circling his nipple.

“Can you fry an egg?”

Of all the wild experiences Otabek had, it was certainly the first time he’d heard that so quickly after sex.

He hummed in confirmation, still petting blonde hair as he held Yuri against him. 

“Go downstairs and make us cups of noodles. And I want a fried egg on top of mine.”

Yuri kissed the skin between his arm and his chest, where he was resting, and pushed him gently at the thigh.

“Do you want sauce in your noodles?” He questioned, rolling out of the bed and pulling on his abandoned underwear. He looked back at Yuri, laying under the sheet with the blanket pulled up to his chin, and he was smiling, biting into his bottom lip to try and contain it.

He nodded, and murmured just loud enough for Otabek to hear. “I was right, you're worth having around.”

Running a hand through his messy hair, Otabek padded down the stairs and yawned as he bustled about, gathering the food. He boiled water, fried an egg, and got two bottles of water, carrying everything back up on a tray he found under the sink.

In the bed, Yuri was sitting up against the headboard with his hair pulled into a messy bun on the top of his head. His lace teddy was off and flung over the chair in the corner of the room. Instead he was wearing a huge t-shirt, a vintage Fleetwood Mac band shirt faded to a dull grey and covered in rips. He was stretching it out, sitting with his knees to his chest and covered by the shirt.  Peeking out from under the top was a pair of fuzzy socks, striped yellow and black like bumblebees.

American Beauty was on again, and Otabek brought over the food wordlessly, setting it down in front of Yuri and carefully cuddling in next to him.

They found comfort easily, Yuri leaning back on Otabek’s chest easily and cups of noodles in each of their hands. They watched the movie, and when Yuri was done eating he curled against Otabek, almost purring when strong hands let fingers gently tangle with blonde hair again.

They were both fast asleep before the credits rolled, empty styrofoam cups falling off the sides of the bed, a matching pair of red chopsticks clattering against the wood floor.

***

When Otabek woke up, the DVD menu was on loop, a plastic bag floating around dramatically on the screen with a tinkling piano melody to accompany it. Otabek reached for the remote, still able to see most of the room in the light of the setting sun. He shut off the TV, leaving only the sound of Yuri’s breathing in the room. He laid there for a while, thinking that maybe sleep would return to him.

It didn't.

He had his eyes closed, and he was dreaming, but he was still awake. The scene played behind his eyes on loop, though. Thoughts of roses seemed incapable of leaving his mind. He thought of Yuri, rose petals falling over his pale skin and in his yellow hair, until they covered him. He found himself curling in closer, his nose buried and tickled by blonde hair, to see if he could inhale the scent of roses. He dreamed that he could.

When sleep never came, a song did. It started with that annoying piano melody from the movie, but his brain was quick to add a bass line. He tapped it out against Yuri’s thigh, so soft so he didn't wake him, playing it out in his head.

He was hoping maybe there was paper he could write on somewhere, but he found something better.

Yuri had an old acoustic tucked into his closet, it's neck peeking out at Otabek invitingly, calling to him. He picked it up and took it to the window seat, testing out each line (the top g was broken and curled around it's tuning peg, sticking out like an antenna). It was only slightly out of tune, and missing a string of course, but it was good enough.

Otabek didn't count how long he played for, working on different chord progressions, the ones he could work with. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the sun fade out and the sky glow dark with stars.

The lyrics came slowly, trickling in until Otabek stood at the beginning of the bridge.

_I inhale you in small doses, but adore you like the roses._

He played it over and over, on loop, trying to get to the end of the bridge and round back to find the chorus, but nothing felt right.

Eventually, Yuri woke up, watching for a while. Otabek didn't know if Yuri knew that Otabek could feel his eyes on him. Finally, he spoke up.

“Can't finish the song?” He murmured into the dark, unmoving from his pillow.

Otabek shook his head, his fingers slowing, pressing gently into the frets instead of choking the neck, like Jarrod always teased that he did unknowingly.

“Come back to bed,” Yuri whispered, and Otabek looked over to see he had pushed the blanket back, his pale legs on full display and enticing in the moonlight. “I'll help you.”

He returned on command, pulled by some invisible string, looming his body over the one laying flat against the sheets. Yuri pulled the stitch through, arms encircling Otabek’s neck and bringing him in until they were flushed together again.

Otabek didn't finish the song that night, but he would finish Yuri at least two (maybe three) more times before they were quiet again, laying back against the cool of the sheets. By the time Otabek turned to face Yuri, to ask if it really had been three, the blonde was already asleep.

Otabek didn't think once about leaving, falling asleep watching the artificial stars stuck to the ceiling above them glowing a fittingly pale, other-worldly green.

 

 

In the morning, Otabek woke up to insistent kisses along his jawline and a hand down the front of his underwear. He barely had time to mutter a “good morning” before Yuri was trailing his kisses down, lower and lower until he had disappeared under the cover of the blankets.

Otabek had his eyes open for all of two minutes before they were closing again, a quiet groan falling from his lips and his right hand gripping a fistful of blonde hair, moving it up and down as the sun filtered in through the window and warmed the room up.

Admittedly, he liked the way Yuri said good morning better.

After, they stumbled into the bathroom to brush their teeth, Yuri sitting on the countertop in his big shirt and swinging his bumblebee-clad feet. Otabek didn't have many firsts left in his life, but he was okay with giving his first toothpaste kiss to Yuri.

He found himself lying back in Yuri’s bed minutes later, a fruit tray between them as they laid at opposite ends of the mattress, juices flowing down their palms as they picked at berries, watermelon, cantaloupe and kiwi as they talked, laughed, absorbed each other as much as they took in the warmth of the sun through the window.

Being with Yuri began to feel synonymous with Summer as the hours blurred together, forming days.

Yuri never asked to go anywhere, he was rather content to hole up with Otabek, hide away in his house together. Their routine became regular after a couple of days; fuck, eat, sleep, and repeat with as little time spent on anything else as possible.

Sometimes, the lines between two of their objectives blurred as easily as the hours.

It was Wednesday (Otabek was pretty sure) and he was holding Yuri’s hands to support him, their fingers intertwined. Blonde hair had been pulled into two loose buns on the top of Yuri’s head, and they bounced in time with his movements on Otabek’s lap. Yuri had been riding him for a good thirty minutes or so, so he had that look in his eyes that Otabek was now intimately familiar with, he was close.

“You know what you should do for me?” He gasped out, breathing fast as he bounced.

“What, baby?” Otabek murmured in immediate devotion, his fingers clutching tight, a strong grip.

“You should call for a pizza.”

Otabek looked up at his eyes, blinking twice. “Right now?”

Yuri nodded fervently, pushing back harder. “Yeah.”

Otabek did as he was told, Yuri still fucking himself on his dick as he gave the person on the phone the address and the order.

When he hung up the phone, Yuri moaned softly, having hit his prostate. He smiled down at Otabek, half dazed as he came all over his stomach.

“Thanks, Beka.”

Moving fast, Otabek flipped them over, making Yuri arch his back high and scratch his nails down Otabek’s chest when he pushed back into him, chasing his own release until it hit fast to the sound of Yuri whining quietly in his ear, just for him.

“For what?” He smirked as he pulled out, kissing the cry of protest from Yuri’s lips.

“The pizza, duh.” Yuri teased, giggling when Otabek laid his full weight down on top of him, biting the skin of his neck. Their laughter was buried with kisses, and Otabek realized he was still holding Yuri’s hands.

When the doorbell rang, Yuri gasped in excitement and pushed at his shoulders, grabbing his joggers from the floor and shoving them at his chest.

“Hurry up, we have a limited amount of time to eat it before it gets cold.”

Otabek rolled his eyes, threw his pants on, and made his way down the stairs. He paid quickly, taking the box and shutting the outside world out as quickly as possible. He only realized once he got back inside and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror that he had red scratches all down his chest, marks of Yuri. 

The mischievous little minx only smirked knowingly when Otabek returned with the pizza, eyes narrowed at him.

They sat on top of the bed and put on an old movie, black and white images flickering on Yuri’s small tv.

“And Beka?” Yuri piped up after a while, waiting until Otabek looked at him expectantly, a slice in his hand and chewing a mouthful of pizza.

“Thanks for making me come so many times, too.”

When Otabek’s eyes widened and he struggled not to choke to death, Yuri’s crude laughter filled the room the way the sun did in the mornings, and the glow of green stars at night.

***

Finally ( _finally)_ , on Friday, Otabek woke up face down in the pillows, and Yuri allowed him to stay that way.

“I'm sore, so you can have today.” Yuri murmured from behind him, kissing the nape of his neck, his blooming lotus hidden under the bandages Yuri so dutifully changed each morning when he was brushing his teeth. He was almost healed by that point, Yuri really didn't need to keep doing it, but there was no protesting the extra care. It has become part of the routine, right after long showers and just before they fall back into bed (or sofa, depending on if they managed breakfast first or not).

Otabek gripped the pillow, letting the feathers inside it catch his pleased groans, his hips and the rest of his backside pushed up in the air.

“I like this view too, just so you know.” Yuri mentioned casually as he rested back on his heels, and curled the two fingers he had inside of Otabek, making him release more curses into the cotton under his mouth, into the feathers below.

It was true that Otabek wasn't as used to it, but Yuri took far too much advantage of the situation, opening him up and teasing him, edging him.

When he finally (finally) draped his small body over Otabek’s and pushed inside of him, he knocked the breath out of Otabek. Pale, thin fingers crept up to fit in between the spaces of where Otabek’s hand had slipped, his fingers spread flat out on the bed.

“Yura,” he begged lowly, and he wasn't quite sure for what.

“I got you, Beka.” Yuri murmured into the skin of his back, kissing the peaks of the mountains on his shoulders. Holding his hands tight as he slowly drew back, Yuri’s voice was hot and filthy in his ear, words coming slow as he pushed back in.

“Don't hold back, let me hear you sing for me like you do onstage.”

If Otabek could write a song only using the melody he made when Yuri fucked him, it would be a pretty shit song. Way too many building guitar solos, and the lyrics would go something like this:

_Yura, my angel_

_Fuck, fuck, fuck_

_So fucking deep_

_Shit_

_Goddammit baby_

_Angel, fuck, I'm going to-_

_Yeah, I just came._

***

“I'm just saying, you've got to come back to reality sometime.” Serik was saying over the phone on Sunday Mid-morning, Otabek holding it between his shoulder and his ear as he brushed his teeth, searching for his clothes with his free hand. Over the course of the week, his clothes had been kicked across the floor, his boots hiding under the bed, and the pair of joggers he’d stolen from Yuri and taken as his own were in the wash.

The only thing that Otabek did know the current location of was his leather jacket, because Yuri was wearing it, curled up and sleeping on top of the bed, his long legs catching the sunlight. The top half of him was covered by the jacket, his nose buried under the collar and his fingers curled around the studs lining the cuff of one of the sleeves.

Yuri had been wearing it, and only it, the night before, granting Otabek’s very specific fantasy. He'd been right, it was the hottest thing he had ever seen, probably, but he was beginning to feel biased. The only thing he'd done all week was Yuri.

Serik called his attention again, and he went over to the sink to spit, rolling his eyes at Serik’s words. “And I want to meet this love demon that has been holding you captive. The last time I saw him he was drunk, so I figure it's time for a proper introduction since he made it this far.”

Otabek rinsed his mouth out and put his toothbrush back in the cup, right next to Yuri’s. It was one of those cheap little plastic ones the dentist handed out, but Yuri always kept them. Otabek was glad he did, as it turned out one had come it handy. He didn't quite know what to do about it now, though. Did he take it with him when he finally did leave? Or, did he leave it in the cup, and it would be waiting for him next time?

Otabek tried not to get too caught up in the idea that there had never been a “next time” before, not with anyone else. He'd also never spent the night with someone, much less an entire week.

“I'll come home tonight, and we can go get slushies at midnight if you want.”

Serik laughed, a playful tone to his voice. “So you're really going to bring your new boyfriend to our bi-weekly brotherly midnight fun run?”

Otabek scoffed, narrowing his eyes although Serik obviously couldn't see him on the other end. “I didn't say he was invited, and besides, he's not my-”

Serik cut him off with another peal of laughter, and hung up on him. Otabek had been missing him, too.

He went back to the bedroom, and slipped Yuri’s closet door open, searching for something he could wear. They'd been naked most of the week, it almost felt strange to look at clothes now.

“Aren't you going to ask why I have so much girl’s clothes?”

The soft murmur came from the bed, and Otabek looked over his shoulder to see Yuri, awake and sitting up now, his legs crossed and his hair a frizzy mess. He looked pale even in the sunlight he usually glowed under, and his eyes were downcast instead of meeting Otabek’s directly like they normally would.

“No,” Otabek answered instantly, wondering why Yuri seemed so concerned, like he was expecting to hear something else. “It's just clothes.”

Yuri brightened a little at that, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

“It's not just clothes, Beka.” He smirked, standing and padding over to where the other was. He pulled a leopard-print pleather mini skirt out, waving it enticingly in front of him. “Clearly, it's fashion.”

Otabek laughed once and kissed him twice, and Yuri’s usual glow was back.

“Let’s get dressed and get out of the house today.”

Yuri nodded, feeling cooped up as well. They dug through skirts and tights and tube tops until they found Otabek an outfit he was comfortable in, a black shirt with the sleeves messily chopped off, and jeans that fit for the most part, maybe a little bit more on his thighs that he would like to admit.

Yuri was a lot easier, slipping the jacket off his shoulders to hand back to Otabek, pulling the leopard-print mini skirt from earlier out and throwing it onto the bed.

“Gotta cover all your marks up if we’re going in public.” Yuri muttered, mostly to himself, as he pushed his legs through clean underwear, and slipping a black turtleneck over his head.

“Very French.” Otabek joked, leaning back on his elbows to watch the little show of Yuri getting dressed.

Ignoring him, Yuri got on his knees and dug around until he made a victory call, rising with royal purple fishnet stockings in his hands.

“I look really hot in these.” He explained, sitting on the bed next to Otabek to carefully shimmy them up from his toes to the tops of his thighs, letting the black lace band fit snugly around them.

He stood up again and stepped into the tiny skirt, jutting his hip out towards Otabek with a smirk.

“Zip me up?”

Otabek licked over his bottom lip, eyes glinting when he looked at Yuri. “Or, you could take all that off and ride me in your pretty stockings.”

Yuri narrowed his eyes and took Otabek’s jacket from where it was laying beside him, throwing it at him. He chuckled, throwing it over his shoulders before leaning forward to capture Yuri’s hips in his hands, holding him in place and pushing the little zipper up.

“There, all dressed.” Otabek pressed a kiss into the curve of Yuri’s back, an inviting band of skin showing between his crop top and his skirt.

Yuri huffed a laugh, diving back into the closet and disappearing behind the door. “Yeah right, I still have to find my boots, and then do my hair.”

Otabek groaned softly and flopped back on the bed, but in truth he didn't mind waiting. It gave him time to think.

Was he really about to bring someone back to the house in the light of day? It meant that Jarrod and Serik and Holly would actually meet someone Otabek was involved with. He wasn't sure when was the last time he'd been well and truly involved with anyone else.

He worried about how they would react. Holly already loved Yuri, and so that meant Jarrod would probably go along with whatever Holly thought.

Serik, on the other hand, was a different story. The few times that Serik had interacted with someone leaving his brother’s bedroom, it was always followed by him gently confronting Otabek and telling him that he didn't like whomever whatsoever. Otabek always told him he had nothing to worry about, but he didn't know what he was going to say if Serik didn't like having Yuri around.

His fears disappeared from the front screen of his mind when Yuri came back into view, crawling over him with a smile on his face and two buns fixed atop his head.

“So, where are you taking me?”

***

Otabek couldn't keep his hands or his mouth off of Yuri, even in public.

They ended up in an uber, heading towards a movie theater. It was the middle of the day on a Sunday, and nothing decent was in the box office except a gory summer horror flick. Yuri poured extra butter and m&m’s into the popcorn bucket and promised he would share (hardly), and laughed at all the wrong points in the movie. Thankfully there were only three other people in the theater that could be bothered by his antics. (“Angel, it's rude to laugh when someone is getting their hands chopped off.” “Well we both said don't go in there.”)

When his favorite character died, he pouted and curled into the seat, leaning his head on Otabek’s shoulder. The movie’s plot took a dip after that and he got bored, so he put his knees to the sticky floor and opened the front of Otabek’s pants right then and there. Otabek looked down at him sucking on the head of his cock, dimly lit by the big movie screen, where a girl was screaming while the killer pounded on the door. By the time Yuri swallowed around him and then pulled back to wipe his mouth, everyone onscreen was dead.

After the movie, they watched the sunset through the large window of a new diner, passing a root beer float between them and Yuri’s feet resting in Otabek’s lap.

“Do you want to come back to the house with me?”

Yuri considered the question, pulling the cherry from the top of the drink, licking the vanilla ice cream off of it and then biting off the fruit, leaving the stem on the table.

“Alright,” he said easily, leaning over to take a bite of his burger. “It'll be good to see Holly again, this time sober.”

Otabek smirked, recalling how his earlier conversation with Serik had begun. “Only if she's not fighting with Jarrod.”

Yuri rolled his eyes, pushing one of the French fries around in ketchup. “They broke up again?”

Otabek nodded, picking up the cherry stem from the table. “Serik told me it's pretty bad. She moved back to her side of the room, even put tape on the floor.”

Sighing in exasperation, Yuri pushed his plate away, leaning back against the window pane. “Probably best if I go to cool her down, then.”

“And Serik, my little brother,” Otabek added, looking down at the cherry stem and twirling it between his fingers. “He's going to try his best to weed you out, you know.”

Yuri smirked, grabbing the root beer float from the table so that only he could drink from it. “I'm _eighteen_ Otabek, a fifteen year old kid doesn't intimidate me.” 

“Alright then, if you're sure.” He reflected his expression, and popped the cherry stem into his mouth. He presented it to Yuri a moment later, perfectly tied.

Yuri narrowed his eyes, pulling his legs from Otabek’s lap with an offended grumble.

“We get it, you're a lead singer with a fat cock, you can stop showing off now.”

***

Back at the house, Jarrod and Serik were playing basketball in the driveway.

“They didn't have hoops in the Hills, Jar?” Serik was taunting him with a grin on both their faces, the younger having just made a three-pointer when Yuri and Otabek walked up.

The ball rolled down the driveway, and Yuri stopped it easily under his boot. If he felt any more self conscious with two pairs of eyes on him now, his face didn't show it.

“Hi boys.” he greeted lightly, dipping down with his knees pressed together to retrieve the ball, standing back up and tossing the ball with a twist of his palm, catching it spinning on one finger.

Otabek looked up the way for two separate reactions.

Serik’s thick eyebrows were raised, clearly impressed by the ease at which Yuri had done a trick he'd been failing to do ever since he first picked up a ball.

Jarrod on the other hand wasn't even looking at the spinning ball, but rather at the tight little skirt the clung to Yuri’s hips, and the fishnet stockings that looked like they came straight from a lingerie boutique. Otabek felt a strange spark run through him, and he instinctively pulled Yuri closer, an arm slung around his waist. He caught the ball with his other hand, chuckling in amusement when Serik started to clap.

“Woah, you're so _cool_.” His younger brother was saying, approaching the blonde with stars in his eyes. “Can you show me how to do that?”

Yuri smiled and nodded, tossing the ball back to him and following him up the driveway, escaping from Otabek’s grip with ease. Well, that was one less thing Otabek had to worry about. He only hoped they always got along so well.

Otabek put his hands in the pockets of his jacket, and walked up to where Jarrod was now leaning against the van, his palm cupped around a fresh cigarette he was lighting.

“So is that the new girlfriend that's held you hostage all week?”

“Not my _boyfriend_.” Otabek corrected pointedly, reaching out to steal the cigarette, taking a drag for himself. Jarrod was quick to apologize, making a comment about what assuming did, and looked embarrassed. Otabek just smirked, letting the smoke blow out, not bothering to turn his head. He stepped closer to Jarrod, trying to make himself taller, his chest out. He murmured low, just for his friend to hear.

“And you would be shocked at what he's packing under that skirt, so I wouldn't stare too long if I were you, wouldn't want you to get confused.”

Jarrod’s eyes widened comically and Otabek chuckled, punching his arm lightly as he passed by and continued into the house, hearing Yuri and Serik’s matching laughter as the screen door shut behind him.

***

Yuri walked into his room later, his hair pulled out of its buns and flowing down just past his shoulders. Otabek was lying back on his bed, resting against the headboard with his guitar in his hands, strumming softly.

He looked around, walking slowly as he examined everything, every picture or poster, like he was in a museum. He picked up the bottle of cologne on Otabek’s dresser, pulling the cap off to inhale it, humming contently to the melody Otabek was playing.

His fingers danced over the surface of the dresser, and he eyed the yellow coffee tin, sticking out among the other items. He lifted the lid and stood on his toes to peer inside, giggling moments later.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Beka, what year is it? 1985?” He replaced the lid, walking over to the bed and kneeling in front of him.

“What can I say?” He chuckled, looking down to where his fingers pressed into the fret. “I'm very faithful.”

Yuri didn't say anything, just crawled up next to him, and watched him play.

Eventually, Otabek got up, placing his guitar back on its stand. He took his jacket off and let it fall on top of his dresser, and pulled his shirt over his head. He walked over to close the door, thinking he and Yuri would sleep until Serik woke him up again at midnight.

“Lock it.” Yuri piped up from his place on the bed, leaning on his elbows.

Otabek did as he was told, walking back over to the bed with a knowing grin.

“You had me all week and you're still unsatisfied, you little minx?”

“What can I say?” Yuri mocked, wrapping his legs around Otabek’s hips when his body loomed over. “I'm very faithful.”

***

True to his word, Serik knocked quietly on the  surface of Otabek’s bedroom door at twenty minutes before midnight, and Yuri was ready, answering with bobby pins in his mouth as he pulled his hair up.

“Oh hey, I thought you guys would be. . .” He struggled to replace the word that was so obviously screaming in his head, and Otabek looked at him with a curious expression from where he was sitting on the bed, lacing his boots up.

“Sleeping?” He supplied, and Serik nodded quickly in agreeance, thankful to be off the hook.

“And miss the bi-weekly brotherly midnight fun run?” Yuri gasped in faux-shock, plopping down on top of Otabek’s lap. “That's something I'll put my clothes back on for, always.”

Serik’s face instantly flushed scarlet, and he scratched the back of his neck.

Otabek smirked, his arms wrapped around Yuri’s waist to keep him close.

“And who said you were invited, angel?” He murmured playfully, pressing kisses behind his ear.

“Your brother, obviously.” Yuri chuckled, reaching his hand out. Grinning, Serik took it and they crossed their thumbs back and forth, like they were playing thumb war, fist-bumped and then high-fived twice. They already had a friendship handshake, and Otabek wondered briefly why he was ever worried in the first place.

They piled into front seat of the van, Serik pushing one of his best mixes into the player and singing along with Yuri as they drove to the gas station.

The middle-aged woman behind the counter barely lifted her eyes from her paperback novella as they walked in with the chime of a bell over their heads. Yuri and Serik raced to the back, the younger handing the blonde a king-sized cup. Otabek watched out of the corner of his eye in amusement, going over to the refrigerator to pick up a pack of wine coolers.

He watched as Yuri gripped Serik’s arm to stop him from reaching for the lever to start the slushie machine, instead leading him over towards the rack of candy across from them. He quickly took a handful of snickers bars, dropping a couple in each of their cups. Serik gave him a confused look, but followed him back to the machine and watched in amazement as Yuri covered the candy bars in a slush of ice and artificial blueberry flavoring. Serik picked strawberry and kiwi, smirking like he'd just pulled off a million dollar heist when they walked up to the counter to pay for the cheap drinks.

They went out through the doors with the bell tinkling behind them, and Otabek put his pack of wine coolers on the counter. The middle-aged lady actually closed her book then, eyeing him over in a way that made him feel too exposed. She was looking at him like she wanted to jump over that counter. Otabek read her name tag, dennise. He wondered if her name was pronounced like “Dennis” or “Dennis-é”.

“ID please.” She smiled and pushed herself forward flirtatiously, her chest pressed up against the edge of the counter. Her hands lingered over Otabek’s were he held onto the pack’s handle, her acrylic red nails squared off at uneven lengths.

Wordlessly, Otabek retracted his hands to get his ID out of his wallet, but of course it wasn't his real one. He was twenty, but according to the license in his wallet, he'd been twenty-three since he was eighteen. He'd gotten it from the same guy who sold him his first hit, and who still lived in a McMansion in the Hills, in the same neighborhood that Jarrod’s parents raised him. That guy never asked for his real ID when he sold him coke.

Dennis-é scanned the wine coolers before she picked up the ID, and looked it over while Otabek busied himself finding cash in his wallet.

“So you're an organ donor,” she observed, sliding the plastic card back over to him. “That must mean you have a good heart.”

That was questionable. If he really did bite it on an OD one day, the little red heart on his fake ID would be pretty useless.

Dennis-é didn't mean his anatomical heart, of course. She meant the heart that was supposed to prove that some random guy in a leather jacket was going to come in for a pack of wine-coolers at midnight and sweep her off her feet, maybe put her on the back of a motorcycle and ride off into the sunrise, just like in the yellowing pages of the paperback she was reading.

“My boyfriend is waiting outside.” He answered flatly instead, dream-crushingly, and took his ID back. Didn't lying twice cancel out and make it lucky?

Deflating, she went about collecting his chain and ripping his receipt off the machine with a bit of a jolt. “Have a great night.”

The bells rang again, and he strode quickly towards the van.

Inside, Serik was still feeling the high of his first slight wrongdoing.

“I can't believe it was so easy.” He was saying, chomping down on the snickers bar in his hand.

“Yeah well, don't pull that without me, I'm a professional.” Yuri joked, and when Otabek turned his head for a kiss, he tasted like blueberries and his lips were cold.

“Did you rock Dennis-é’s world for five whole minutes while we were waiting, Beka?” He smirked, his feet moving up to rest on the dash.

“Nah, you wore me out, baby doll. I gave her a raincheck for two weeks from now.”

Yuri laughed, and pressed a cold snickers bar into his stomach.

“Guess I'll have to be a regular accomplice so I make sure that doesn't happen.”

***

“You're two days late.”

Armand greeted him when he walked through the door of the shop, and seemed equal parts devastated and confused when he saw that Otabek was alone.

He just smirked knowingly, having the upper hand this time, clapping Armand’s back as he steered him towards the drawing room.

Armand was very quiet when they got back to the chair, setting up his station with careful movements, as if he was waiting for Otabek to say something important before the buzz of the gun would drown him out.

The bell over the shop’s door indicated a new arrival, and Yuri walked in wearing chunky thigh-high boots, a vintage red slip dress and a velvet choker, a tray of coffee cups in his hands.

“Hey Armand, Beka told me all about you,” the blonde smiled as he made his way over to the station, carefully setting the tray down. “Decaf with soy, yeah?”

Armand nodded, looking up at Yuri in amazement, like he was seeing a premonition come to light.

Yuri just rolled his eyes, already in on it too, and pecked Otabek’s lips.

He sat back on the sofa with his chai in hand, legs crossed and looked at Armand expectantly.

“You've been waiting two days, pal, don't let my presence stop you.”

 

***

 

Otabek wakes up one morning, and reaches his hand out instinctively. Even before opening his eyes, he can smell Yuri’s apple shampoo and feel his soft fingertips on the expanse of his back, drawing over the black lines of Almaty’s skyline.

“Good morning, angel.” He smiles softly, and Yuri is glowing in the small amount of light that shines from his bedroom window.

Yuri scoots up to kiss him, and Otabek hums contently. He thinks for a moment that maybe he's still dreaming, because it shouldn't be normal to wake up feeling so content and at peace.

“You never told me what they all mean, you know.”

So he does. It's not the first time they've spent hours talking and cuddling in bed, and he knows it won't be the last. He tells him the stories of his skin, starting with the first one.

“It used to be uglier, when I had first done it.” He admits, and Yuri punches him lightly on the chest and tells him to be grateful he didn't get an awful infection. Still, it makes him while when Otabek says that every time he looks at it, he thinks of Serik, his lucky charm. Yuri kisses over the clover.

“I kind of regret these,” he says, hands smoothing over the words love and lust over his hips. Yuri still kisses them both.

“One day, I'll take you back home with me, so you can see them for real.” He says of the mountains and the skyline, and Yuri plants a kiss on every peak.

The lotus still had no real story, but it was freshly bloomed with green color, and Yuri kissed it the longest, pressing his face into Otabek’s neck and nuzzling affectionately before they flipped back, Yuri laying over his chest.

“I talked to my mom a few days ago,” he continues, Yuri’s pinkie running along the connecting line of the tally mark on Otabek’s wrist. “Serik spilled the beans on you. He told her I'm spending all my time on this boy that looks like he came straight from heaven.”

“That last part was you, not Serik.” Yuri smirked, and pressed another kiss into the pulse of his wrist. “Does your mom know that you're. . .”

Yuri trailed off unsurely, his pinkie replacing his lips and moving across the lines again.

“Engaging in premarital sex?” Otabek smirks, reaching under the blanket to grip Yuri’s ass playfully. “I think that's the least of her long list of concerns.”

Yuri hides in the crook of his neck, and Otabek wraps his arms around him, chuckling softly. Pale fingers come to brush against the freshly healed ink on his left outward-facing forearm, ghosting over the letters.

_I inhale you in small doses, but adore you like the roses._

“You never did finish the song.” Yuri reminds him quietly.

“Give it time.” He replies, and they're kissing again.

He never gets tired of kissing Yuri, never gets bored of having the little blonde in his bed. He keeps waiting for it to happen, for the magic to fade, for the glow-in-the-dark stars above Yuri’s bed to go out one night and give him a sign that all this is temporary. It hasn't happened yet.

It's been a little over two months, and Otabek wonders how he kept up when time moved so fast and Yuri was so completely insatiable.

Their lips still melding together, Yuri’s stomach growled unhappily between them, making Otabek chuckle and pat his hip.

“Put something on and go get something to eat, kitten.”

“Fine, but only because I like food slightly more than post-coital cuddling.” Yuri muttered, rolling off of him and picking one of Otabek’s t-shirts up from the bottom of the bed and throwing it over his slim frame. He opened the door and slipped out, heading towards the kitchen.

Otabek buried his face in his hands and tried to stop the affection from drowning him. He didn't know what was taking a hold of him lately, he'd never been hit quite like this before.

Serik appeared in the doorframe and cleared his throat to announce his arrival, and when Otabek looked up at him, he was chewing on a twizzler.

“Who got you more candy?” He asked, and Serik smirked.

“Your boyfriend.”

“Not my boyfriend,” Otabek snapped, pulling the blanket higher up on his chest. “I'm just sleeping with him.”

“For two months straight?” He bites into the red candy, barely able to stop his smug expression. Damn Serik for being so smart and Otabek not being able to say anything against him, ever. “It's only a little love, Otya, you might as well face it.”

Otabek narrowed his eyes, stubbornly turning away from him and onto his side, breathing in the scent Yuri had left behind on the pillow. He could inhale the smell of him, but having the real thing so close and on constant supply was really starting to spoil Otabek. All play, and no work on the song he still hasn't finished, but had inked into his skin without hesitance.

“Clean your mirror up, by the way.” He threw out before leaving, and Otabek felt a small chill in the warmth of his blankets. The circular mirror on his dresser had been laid flat, and neat lines of cocaine were arranged along its surface, done by Yuri before he'd been otherwise distracted.

When the blonde returned to the room, closing the door behind him and a poptart in his mouth, he helped Otabek clean off the mirror.

Probably not in the way Serik meant, but then again he didn't get to see what happened behind Otabek’s bedroom door.

Some things were always bound to happen behind closed doors, away from the eyes of those who didn't understand.

Then again, Serik knew better than he did, and if Otabek still believed in a God, he would probably thank them for managing at least that much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> http://onotherflights.tumblr.com/ : Come say hi!


	7. Tiger (Green Eyes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The last chapter! I’m so sad this is coming to an end, but i’m so happy i did it and i'm so proud of this. It wasn’t supposed to be much of anything, but damn did it turn into something. Now that this is done, I think i’m going to take a little break from this verse, get more of AF written before i update again. I’m still going to be writing though, don’t worry, maybe just some lighter things! 
> 
> If you like this story or anything I write and you want to support me there are some links on tumblr I highly encourage you to check out that I can't mention here…. (pls help me). 
> 
> Also if you just want to help promote this story/the series, consider reblogging these posts!  
> \- [Yuri fanart ](https://creemsicaal.tumblr.com/post/162169855459/so-youre-like-the-band-mom-if-he-was-a-band)  
> \- [Yuri and Otabek fanart (ft. the tiger tattoo!!) ](http://onotherflights.tumblr.com/post/163114317272/otapocalypse-punkotayuri-from-the-fic-almatys)  
> \- [The music of the Series post ](http://onotherflights.tumblr.com/post/162196354502/almatys-fire-series-by-onotherflights-the)  
> \- [The new (better) ficboard ](http://onotherflights.tumblr.com/post/163519101317/lucky-seven-fanfic-fanmix-by-onotherflights)
> 
>  
> 
> Songs used in this chapter:  
> Sweet - cigarettes after sex  
> Bad behavior - The maine
> 
> TW; offscreen deaths, blood, drug overdoses. Please proceed with caution.

Falling in love for perhaps the first real time and not saying anything about it is a lot like the first time he met his dealer. Only now, instead of being led down basement steps by some wire-thin girl like she was a receptionist, he's being pulled by his hands, Yuri’s fingers intertwined in his. Instead of being pushed in front of a literal wall made of bricks of the product, he was being pushed down onto a futon with stars printed onto it. Instead of having an eight ball filled with white powder pressed into his hand, he was feeling Yuri’s lips press gently into the tip of each of his fingers, and then into his palm. He cupped Yuri’s cheek and felt the same power he did the night he got his first hit. He felt like he was holding the whole world in his hand.

Yuri made a mess of him, right there on the futon in the basement. The noise they made couldn't be heard over the sounds of music and chatter from upstairs. In the house, a party was going on. Alcohol (and probably more) was flowing, people were packed. They had locked Otabek’s bedroom before anyone had arrived, figuring that if one of the members of another band (or a dealer) were to stumble in and find Otabek’s stash, it would be gone by the end of the night. Instead, Yuri had pulled him close when they were dancing, far too slow and intimate for the blaring rock song that was playing and the way Yuri was grinding back on his belt buckle, and told him that he could get another kind of hit to satisfy him, and then pulled him towards the door.

There was a single overhead light, Otabek could see it even with his eyes closed, the dull glow above them as Yuri pressed into him. He hadn't even bothered to take his clothes off, his slip dress hiked up around his sides and his fishnet tights pushed down to his thighs.

Otabek didn't want to mess up his pretty hair, so his hands were clinging helplessly to Yuri’s back, panting and grunting with each brutal thrust Yuri gave. He knew all too well that when they were like that, Otabek wanted it rough.

“Yura,” he rasped desperately, the studs on his jacket clinking against the metal frame of the futon. They were going to break the cheap thing one day. “Come inside.”

He didn't open his eyes to see Yuri’s reaction to his request, but he could also feel that Yuri was a little too far gone to deny him.

It had been three months, and they'd done the smart, adult thing and gotten tested. Yuri said he knew he was fine, but Otabek counted on all his lucky stars and his lucky clover that he hadn't gotten anything that could kill him. As of late, he had decided maybe being so reckless wasn't as fun as it used to be.

They didn't sleep with anyone else. It was unspoken, but something obvious. They were rarely apart, so they didn't really have the time. Even on nights like this, with a party happening and every opportunity to hook up with someone else, someone easy, Otabek found himself with his leg hitched over the side of a futon, begging Yuri to give him everything.

Yuri had already been close, so it only took a few more deep thrusts before he was spilling inside, Otabek moaning shamelessly at the new feeling. He pulled Yuri in by the neck, a sweet kiss contrasting wildly to the way Yuri was touching him between their two stomachs. It didn't take much longer for Otabek to bite his own bottom lip and coat Yuri’s graceful fingers.

When he finally did open his eyes, it was to Yuri’s pink tongue darting out to lick his fingers clean. Otabek groaned and covered his face with his arm, too spent to even think about another round so quickly but still craving it.

“Hey smarty,” Yuri teased as he wiped at the smudged lipstick from the corner of his mouth. “Did you plan on how you're going to clean up without leaking in your pants?”

Otabek smirked, looking around the basement and pointing lazily to a box of tissues sitting on a shelf over the dryer.

He watched Yuri pull away, tucking himself back into his black boy shorts and fishnets, straightening his dress as he walked over to the laundry area.

Once Otabek was cleaned up and zipping his black skinny jeans back, Yuri was sitting on the other side of the futon with a handheld mirror in one hand, reapplying his deep red liquid lipstick with the other.

Otabek leaned over to rest on his shoulder, watching Yuri smile softly at him in the reflection. He snapped the small mirror shut, leaning back and watching Otabek watch him.

“Enjoying the view?” The blonde smirked, a curl of his blood red mouth.

Instead of responding, he brought himself closer, capturing Yuri’s lips in a warm kiss.

He loved the taste of Yuri, no matter what it mixed with. Sometimes it was the sticky sweet taste of the peach schnapps that he drank with Holly when they took bubble baths together, his hair still wet and smelling like the inside of a specialty bath store when he climbed into Otabek’s bed. Sometimes he tasted like artificial syrup, falling down giggling onto the sofa with Serik in tow. Sometimes he just tasted like the morning, the sunlight streaming in through the windows making his hair shine gold. Sometimes, like just then, Otabek could taste himself in Yuri’s mouth.

He pulled away slowly, Yuri chuckling softly and wiping at the corners of his lips.

“It was still wet, smarty. Now you're wearing it too.”

Yuri moved to wipe it off, but Otabek caught his wrist. “I don't care. I want to wear it.”

His head tilted, the buns on top of his head moving with him. It was rare that Yuri couldn't figure him out, usually it was the other way around.

“Okay,” Yuri murmured, leaning into Otabek’s shoulder. “Let’s stay here a little while longer.”

Otabek nodded, resting his chin on Yuri’s skull where it was nestled into his shoulder.

“We could stay here forever,” Yuri murmured softly, his arms wrapping around him like vines, holding him close. “We could just lay here. They can come find us in a few days.”

Otabek grinned lazily and stroked his back, feeling the curve of his spinal cord under his hands.

“Deal.”

 

 

He tells Serik before he tells Yuri.

It was a gig night, and everyone was feeling like a live wire, but especially Otabek. They hadn't booked a gig in months, and finally it was picking up again. That night was their third of the week, a rare happening for a struggling band just starting to get back onto its feet.

They finally had a name they were stuck with, and Otabek didn't quite know how Serik had managed to beat him in drinking when he was so new to it. He had a high suspicion that when he wasn't looking, Yuri had helped Serik with some of the shots.

Either way, he liked it. _Almaty’s Fire._

It was a powerful name, strong in its simplicity. It would be interesting to see how many people over the years who mispronounce it, or ask them what it means. Serik passes him by in the hallway sometimes, and greets him with an affectionate pat on the back, over his shoulders, where a skyline is imprinted on his skin. They know what it means.

Yuri claimed he didn't like it, that they should have gone for something more hardcore or sexy, but the very same night he'd contradicted himself. Otabek had taken him on a midnight walk, and by the time they were passing the abandoned movie house at the edge of their neighborhood, he was carrying Yuri on his back.

“Look, Beka.” He whispered, pointing up to the bare marquee, its bulbous lights long burnt out. “Can't you picture it? _Almaty’s Fire : Sold Out._ ”

They got in through the broken window, and wandered the 90’s space carpets with the light of the moon guiding them. In the game room, a lonely pool table sat in the middle of the room with a gash down the center. He laid Yuri down on top of it and fucked him slow, his rough fingers and his lips leaving tokens of his devotion.

It had been barely three months since they met, and yet Otabek had known something was different from the second they had locked eyes.

He knew it, tried to tell Yuri with the way he touched him, but he couldn't do it yet. Not until he finished the song.

Even without a new song, they managed to build a set on some old material and a few covers from bands far greater than them. Said bands played through the speakers in the van as Serik hauled the guitar and the bass, each in their respective cases, up to where Otabek was crouched in the back of the van. He took them, carefully stacking them against the side of the vehicle.

“We need to start strapping things down better after the shows bub, I don't want Yura to get a cymbal to the head again.” He was muttering, an unlit cigarette sticking out from where it was tucked behind his ear.

Serik nodded, leaning against the metal door. “Of course, anything for your boyfr-”

“Not my boyfriend.” Otabek quickly cut in, almost a habit. Sighing, Serik climbed into the back of the van and sat down, his legs hanging over the bumper, dirty red chucks swinging. They had doodles all over the rubber toe parts, courtesy of Yuri and Holly left bored with a pack of sharpies one day. Yuri had drawn a pretty little strawberry, and Holly had penned a blue alien. Jarrod’s white Vans had received the same treatment, but the doodles were a bit more crude.

Serik patted the spot next to him, so Otabek sat down too, the chunky buckles of his leather boots clunking when he let his legs swing over the bumper in an identical fashion.

“When are you going to stop pretending you're not completely gone for this dude? Because I can keep the act up if you can, but you just let me know when we can drop it.”

Otabek smirked, punching his shoulder lightly. “You know too much.”

“That’s not hard when compared to you.” Serik pushed back, but his tone was playful as ever.

It takes a while, but eventually Otabek answers him honestly.

“I care about him, maybe more than I've cared for anyone else I've been with.”

“Even Aya?”

The sound of her name brings something up in Otabek he hadn't felt in years, it had been buried under so much snow. Aya had been his first, and maybe in a way he cared about her, but they had both been too young to know what it meant. He'd been with so many people since then, so many faceless bodies over or under him. He should feel guilty for not remembering how soft her skin was under his hands, and yet he could remember every color in Yuri’s eyes.

When they had gone home, they'd seen her in town. She was married, her middle swollen with another man’s child inside of her. Otabek was happy he had left when he did.

“Yeah,” he answered easily, the words coming out. He should feel guilty, admitting that now. He doesn't. “Even Aya.”

“Wow.” Serik breathes out, hanging his head. “It really is bad then.”

Otabek wasn’t looking at him, he was looking out towards the sun setting. He said, “I think I'm in love with him.”

Serik sighed again, and pulled a pack of m&m’s out of his shirt pocket. He dumped a small pile into his palm, and then hands the bag over to Otabek. For a while, they just sit there, eating candy. It's almost like they're kids again.

“Well, it's okay if you are.” Serik says with an air of finality, after minutes pass. “I like him, so I guess you can keep him around.”

Otabek chuckled, shaking his head fondly. He didn't recall ever asking Serik's opinion. Instead he followed with, “You've never liked anyone I've been with before, what makes Yuri so different?”

Serik’s eyes are lighter than his own, and they glint with the promise of real answers. Maybe he'd point out that he just wanted his older brother to be happy, and he was happier with Yuri than he'd been in a long time. Maybe he would mention how well Yuri fit into their life, the makeshift second family they had created for themselves.

Instead what he said was, “I think he's cool, and he buys me junk food.”

“I think he's cooler than me.”

Serik nodded instantly. “He is.”

He paused to dip the bag towards his lips, more chocolate candies falling into his mouth. He chewed for a moment, then added something unexpected. Otabek had heard it from others, about people that didn't really matter. This time was different, and it was coming from his own brother.

“You better not hurt him.”

They didn't say anything else, because the subject of their conversation came walking up the driveway wearing an oversized ripped shirt and a smirk on his face.

“Well boys, what are we sitting around here for?” He bit his bottom lip, and climbed onto Otabek's lap with a flash of the gold hot pants he wore under his shirt. “Don't we have a rock show to get to?”

 

At the end of the night, they ended up at a house party someone begged them to go to after the show. Yuri and Holly had traded flasks backstage, so even though he's hanging half on Otabek by the time they get to the house, he falls down in the driveway and scrapes his knee. He's still laughing about it when Otabek gets him inside and sat on the counter, cleaning the wound and placing pink band aids over each of his knees. He kisses over each one, and then captures his lips. He carried Yuri to bed, with Serik’s words running through his head. Of all the people he's ever hurt, whether he did so intentionally or not, he never wanted to hurt Yuri.

At least, that was what he told himself.

 

 

“What is this?”

Otabek looks down at Yuri lying on his chest. His eyes are half closed, and they haven't moved to cover themselves yet so he can see the entire expanse of his pale,naked form pressed into his side, the contrast of their flushed skin against each other. One of his hands stroke through yellow hair, and the other holds a cigarette between two fingers and brings it up to his lips. He takes a drag, and answers Yuri on the exhale.

“Cigarettes after sex.”

The vinyl is playing softly in the background, and he passes the cigarette over to Yuri. They're too exhausted to move so that they can kiss more, but they can pass a cancer stick between the two of them, the smoke lingering in the air above Otabek’s bed. Yuri taps out the excess ash into the designated tray resting on the older man’s chest, a little yellow smiley face buried under cigarette dust, and then he takes his drag.

“Obviously,” he chuckles around grey wisps. “I meant the band, Beka.”

Fifteen minutes ago, when Yuri had last said his name, it was because he had just come. He climbed off of Otabek’s lap, legs still trembling and traces of what they'd just done sliding down his thigh. He had picked out a random vinyl, not looking at the cover, and put it on, falling back into the bed tiredly.

Otabek turned his head to plant a kiss into his hairline, his bangs damp with sweat and pushed back. Across the room, the voice in the vinyl crooned softly.

 _It's so sweet, knowing that you love me_  
_Though we don't need to say it to each other, sweet_  
_Knowing that I love you, and running my fingers through your hair_  
_It's so sweet_

“That’s what the band is called, Yura.”

He drops the cigarette into the ashtray and turns his face into Otabek’s neck and laughs. He laughs like it's the funniest thing he's ever heard and it's such a beautiful sound in his ear, better than the song, perfectly fitting as it may be, like divine timing.

He knows, all at once. He knows that he can finish the song now, Yuri’s song.

He had never written any of his songs about anyone else, not until Yuri. All at once he knew he could finish that song and that there were an infinite number of others.

Before he has the courage to say anything, Yuri is cradling his cheek, turning his face for a series of fresh kisses. Otabek moves the ashtray to the nightstand and pulls Yuri against him, his hands wandering the warm skin of his back.

They fall into easy, quiet conversation. They don't always talk, sometimes they're content to just lie there. When they spend the night at Yuri’s house, which is growing to be a more rare occurrence by the day, Otabek would wordlessly count the glowing green stars on the ceiling, Yuri tucked against him just the way he is now. Sometimes they can't seem to stop talking, each of them flowing into anecdotes from each other until they're so far from the original topic.

“I’m nervous for the LA show,” Otabek admits, toying with strands of blonde between his fingers. “Serik is convinced that because it's LA, some big talent scout is going to discover us or some shit.”

Yuri hums in acknowledgment, but doesn't weigh in on the likelihood. He's tracing the letters inked into Otabek’s hips, pale fingers curving along the letter u in lust and the wandering over to the letter v in love. It makes Otabek’s heart quicken, a familiar comfort without the usual after effects.

“After that, you'll be going south, right? Near Vegas?”

He nodded. They joke that maybe Holly and Jarrod will get drunk and resolve their fight with a wedding in a little white chapel. Otabek goes on to run through the schedule of gigs to the best order he can remember. Serik is the one who knows all the minute details, he was just the lead singer.

“We won't be back here for a month or so. Maybe longer if something good happens.”

Yuri hums again, and the conversation pauses there. He notices the subtle shift in his movements, the way Yuri wraps an arm over his waist and pulls himself in, trying to be smaller and impossibly closer, fit himself against Otabek’s body until they mold back together.

Smirking knowingly, already able to read him like a book, the soft huff of laughter causes Yuri to look up, brows knit and a slight pout on his lips.

“If you're waiting for me to say I'll miss you when you go away, don't hold your breath.”

He thought of every inch of Yuri’s skin he hadn't yet tasted, and it seemed a shame. “Maybe you should come with us then, so you don't have to miss me.”

Yuri rolled his eyes, but the way he was wrapped around Otabek like a vine seemed to contradict that sentiment.

“I've done that before, remember? It didn't exactly work out.”

Otabek kissed his forehead. “Your boyfriend was an idiot. He didn't know a good thing when he had it. You're no average groupie, babe.” He said it with a smirk, and Yuri matched him.

“I don't know,” he chided, laying on his back with Otabek’s arm wrapped over his shoulder. “I've been quite the groupie these last few months. Maybe not average, though, depending on the breakfast to fucks ratio.”

Holly and Jarrod were the cooks, and even in their current discontent they still managed to get food on the table each morning. Otabek would rise first, always, and they would watch him fix his coffee cup to determine if Yuri had stayed the night. Otabek drank his coffee with very little cream and sugar in it, but Yuri liked his milk with a side of coffee. If he fixed the cup and sat down alone, Yuri wasn't there. If he fixed the cup and returned to his room, Yuri was sleeping peacefully and would sit up to share the coffee. It would be another hour or so before he slipped into clothes and went in search of Holly, wrapping himself around her and suggesting that day’s adventure.

“No tiger, ” Otabek murmured, tracing his jawline. “Definitely not average.”

They kissed languidly for a long stretch of time, losing track of it like they always did. When they stopped, Otabek asked what he was thinking about, seeing the gears turning in the sea of his eyes.

“Just that you must be a pretty shit rockstar,” Yuri quips, having taken Otabek’s hand in his own. He curls their fingers together, nips at Otabek’s thumb playfully. “If you've only got the one groupie.”

Otabek replies instantly, unthinking. “Maybe I only want the one.”

Yuri doesn't say anything else, just kisses him again and leaves the bed. Otabek watches him get dressed, a lazy arm resting over his head. He vanishes into the kitchen and Otabek rolls over, thinking he can maybe get a few hours of sleep before rehearsal.

He gets a good ten minutes before Holly appears in the doorway of his bedroom, wet hair dripping and her thumbs in the pockets of her striped overalls.

“You getting up for band practice or what, loverboy? The boys are waiting.”

Again, Yuri had taken up all of his time. He didn't mind it so much, or even at all. He would give it all to Yuri if he could, no holds barred.

 

After that, Otabek stops correcting anyone who guesses he and Yuri are an item. It’s a little less of a glamorous moment when it first happens, and Yuri isn’t even conscious to witness it. It was the end of the night at a party. Yuri was sleeping on the floor next to him, curled like a cat and clutching his empty red plastic cup, both of them expecting a hangover the next morning that could only be cured by a classic morning-after breakfast diner binge. It was becoming a habit for them.

His back was pressed against the foot of the sofa, where someone ( _Whose house was it again? Nikki? Or Nia?_ ) was laying with her eyeliner streaking her round cheeks. She watched Otabek laying on the floor with Yuri, his face buried in his yellow hair and humming softly, knowing everyone around them was just as gone and no one was listening.

Wordlessly, she tapped Otabek’s shoulder. When he tore his gaze away from Yuri to look at her, he noticed she was still crying. It was quiet, not making a show of itself, maybe she didn’t even realize she was. She reached for Otabek’s hand, and dropped a familiar weight into his palm. He didn’t have to look to know it was white and would need to be crushed to hell if he wanted its worth – and its worth was free.

“Thanks,” He muttered and pocketed the gift.

“Want another for your boyfriend? Or pills, he looks more like the type.”

He looked at the girl, her tears mixing with the pigment and making her look as if she was on her last leg. He noticed her fingers were trembling where they still touched his. He curled back, wrapping an arm protectively around Yuri.

“No, he’s not like –” He furrowed his brow. “He’s not a fucker, alright? You can tell your man Ricky he’s off limits, too.”

A fresh wave of tears sent mascara sliding down the girl’s neck, striped like Holly’s overalls.

“Ricky’s been gone for a year, asshole.”

 

 

When he finally told Yuri, he said it to the back of his head first, three words tangled in blonde hair where they fell off of Otabek’s lips.

It was early morning, the sun starting to rise slowly. The green stars still glowed above them on Yuri’s bedroom ceiling, and they had the window open to let in the night air. Because of this, Yuri was trying his best to stay quiet. Behind him, an arm wrapped around his middle as they lay on their sides, Otabek could feel the press of blonde hair against his parted lips.

“Make me come.” Yuri whispered, arm reaching back so that he had a grip on Otabek’s hair. Intending to follow instructions, he touched Yuri with a quick hand, leaning over his twisted body so that they could kiss.

He was inside Yuri, the tight heat drawing him in and pushing him back as they moved together. He returned to the sweet smell lingering in his hair. Inhaling it, letting the perfume of Yuri fill him the way he was filling him in return.

He wanted to whisper back something dirty, something that would take Yuri over the limit. Maybe _it feels so good inside you_ , or _I feel more whole when we’re like this._

Instead, what comes out of him is true and new as the sun steadily rising, its colors bleeding into the canvas of the night sky as they get closer.

“I love you.” He whispers into yellow hair, his lips touching the shell of Yuri’s ear.

Yuri doesn't respond, but his push back is stunted and sets them off and there's a hitch in his breath. Otabek makes up the pace, and he brings the hand that was getting Yuri off up to his neck. The loss causes him to whine softly, and Otabek is gentle when he grips Yuri’s throat, his thumb pressing against his jawbone as he forces him to turn his head. Strong green eyes meet him, and he says it again; it spills from his mouth like it never had before, not with anyone. He doesn't even try to cover it up or deny it, for once.

“Did you hear me? I love you, Yura.”

Again there's no response, but when he pushes in deep and leans down to kiss him, Yuri welcomes his touch, lips separating easily as petals and the warm honey of his tongue rushing to greet him.

It only takes a few slow rolls of his hips and Yuri trembles in his hold, a gasp and a choked-off whine against his mouth. He comes, shivering, and then deflates.

He’s perfectly still while he waits for Otabek to finish, except for the fingers still laced in dark hair, petting him, coaxing him wordlessly until he spills inside.

Otabek is panting hot air against the nape of his neck, and the realization of what he’d just said hits like a second climax. He groans softly, shutting his eyes and burying his face. He makes to move away, but Yuri finally lets go of his hair to reach back and hold his hip firmly, keeping him inside. He clenches down around where Otabek’s cock is going soft, making him groan again.

“Yura, don’t.” He whines when the movements continue, overstimulation making his voice sound higher than its usual deep rumble.

Finally Yuri lets him go, rolling from his side onto his stomach. If he cringes at the feeling of laying down in his own wet patch Otabek doesn’t see it, because he turns his head away.

 

They’re laying next to each other, their skin still touching, but Otabek feels the sinking feeling of suddenly being miles away.

Carefully, fearing it may be the breaking factor, he lays his hand on the curve of Yuri’s back. The reaction is six heartbeats late, as if Yuri had timed it that way, unlucky.

He whips his pale head up and looks at Otabek with a fury in his jade eyes that he’s all too familiar with. Only, he’s exclusively seen it directed towards others. Yuri never looked at him like that.

“You _love_ me, _really_  Otabek?” Yuri accused, and he notices that his voice was wavering, his eyes brimming with saltwater. “Why would you go and say something stupid like that?”

Otabek is shocked silent, as he so often is around other people. It’s not supposed to be this way with Yuri, this wasn’t how he planned the moment on going, to say the least.

He deflates, and he doesn’t know which voice to listen to. Right now, they’re all screaming for him to turn away. Lockdown, defend, block. It’s what he had always done. It figured that the one time he let someone in, the one time he truly gave himself to another person -

Yuri crashed into him, a tangle of sheets and limbs and his honey-slick tongue. Tears stream down his cheeks silently, fall between them and land where Otabek can taste them.

They fall into each other again but it doesn’t feel the way it did before, and Otabek gets no explanation other than the way Yuri clings to him, even after in his sleep. He’s holding onto him, resting uneasily, his tears dried against his soft skin.

It takes the count of a few dozen glowing green stars for Otabek to realize.

Everyone who had ever told Yuri they loved him had left. Every single person.

His father, before he even laid eyes on Yuri. His mother. His grandfather, though that was no fault of his own. The string of families he’d been passed along when he arrived in America, each time arriving with a new dent, a new scar. All the boys he’d let into his bed, into his body. None of them stayed. Even Holly, who picked up her life and moved across the country when she met Jarrod, leaving Yuri in the hands of someone who would leave him too, all the same.

It was something fundamental that separated them.

Holding him, sleeping and tear-stained, Otabek thinks that there’s nothing he’s done to make Yuri believe he’s really any different. Slapped a label on what they were together, sure. What had that been worth in the past?

Otabek thought about how many times he’d been the one doing the leaving. He vividly remembered the hurt he’d caused, his parents trying to convince him. They never said “don’t go”, they just asked him to stay. For them, for Serik. He left anyway.

He remembered the many nights Jarrod had caught his arm at the front door, or at a party, Otabek’s eyes shining with the possibility of his next hit. He’d begged him not to leave, not to hide himself away and consume, binge, use. He left anyway, over and over.

He’d given Yuri no reason to believe he wouldn’t leave.

He watched Yuri in his arms, unable to sleep. He tried to put himself in different shoes, preferably black with a chunky heel. If he was Yuri, he wouldn’t trust him either.

The noise came back, and it wasn’t music anymore, but it was screaming at him to prove everyone right. No one expected him to be anything more than an asshole. He should leave. He should get dressed and make a few calls. He should blow lines and drink until he blacked out, and then the noise would cease.

Instead, he tunes them all out by singing Yuri’s song to himself quietly, and he wrapped his arms tighter.

For once, he stayed, uncaring of what he faced in the morning.

 

When they wake, the sun is blaring, commanding attention.

Yuri takes one look at him, and turns away to give the sun its wish. Otabek aligns himself against Yuri’s back, a soft hand tracing down his side.

“Thank you.” he whispers, and pulls Otabek’s hand up to press a kiss to the back of it.

They stay that way until they hear the front door open, and Jarrod is downstairs making a ruckus of putting Yuri’s groceries away. They can hear Serik too, talking about the show that night.

Yuri sits up, stretching out and throwing the sheets off.

“Baby,” Otabek hears himself beg, his hand going to where Yuri’s spine rests, just like the night before. “We should talk about it.”

Yuri shakes his head, and stands on unsteady legs. “After the show.”

 

 

That night, Otabek sets himself on fire.

There’s a certain sense of loss onstage, of losing himself. He lets go of reality when all he can focus on is the music, his body moving him with it. He’s powerless to it, and it controls every move he makes, every scream ripped from his chest when he’s singing.

He can’t see Yuri in the crowd, because he’s standing side stage, his arms crossed over his chest and his lips in a flat line.

He made himself look purposefully delectable, wearing a red velvet slip dress over ripped black and white striped leggings. His hair is pulled half up, a skull clip nestled against the back of his head. He’d chosen not to wear any makeup that night, so he looked even younger, more fresh. He’s wearing black boots with stilettos so sharp he could kill someone, and with the way some idiot had made a pass at him before soundcheck, perhaps he might before the night is over.

“Hey babygirl, you need a backstage pass?”

That was what the idiot guy had called out to Yuri from his barstool, and Otabek had stopped dead where he was walking in front of him with his guitar case over his shoulder. He turned on his heel, ready to send the guy flying across the bar and into the glass bottles, but Yuri held his own.

“This dick is my backstage pass.” He said back, crude and calm, and flipped the guy off before storming ahead of Otabek, to where Jarrod was holding the door open and biting back a laugh.

He was still fuming, still raw from the morning, but he wore Otabek’s leather jacket over his shoulders, letting it comfort him.

Onstage, Otabek had no comfort. He only had the music. So, he gave himself over, body and soul, knowing that Yuri was watching every move he made.

 

When he traded his electric for acoustic and sits on a stool, Yuri leaves his post at the side of the stage. Otabek isn’t worried though, because a moment later he sees him scooting into the front row next to Holly, who’s waving him in and throwing a scathing comment to the girl next to them who complains when Yuri cuts in. He’s playing the opening notes of his song, staring right into jade eyes. He doesn’t hesitate his words.

“This next one is called ‘roses’ and it’s about sex.” There was a cheer from the crowd, whooping in enthusiastic approval. He chuckled against the mic, and when he looked up at Yuri he didn't seem amused. His arms were still crossed, but his thumb was rubbing against the inner silk of the jacket. He locked eyes with him, and continued the introduction.

“But it's about someone specific.” He locked eyes with Yuri, so he knew exactly who Otabek was singing for. “This one is about you, tiger. Only you.”

He called Yuri that in private countless times, along with a handful of other pet names. Saying it now, in front of a half-drunken rock show crowd, felt almost too intimate. Still, he couldn’t take his eyes away. He began to sing, only his voice and his guitar. Jarrod was standing back, and Serik was resting at his drum kit. The spotlight was on him, and he was looking at Yuri. As he went on, the rest of the crowd faded away until all he saw was Yuri, looking back at him and trying to keep the smile off his face.

He looked at those bright green eyes, and deliberately sang the words wrong.

The original lyrics were inked into Otabek’s arm, facing out towards the crowd on his forearm. It was just one word change, maybe no one would notice.

_I inhale you in small doses  
But i love you like the roses._

Yuri noticed, and he finally smiled.

 

It was almost a relief to get offstage after the last song, the crowd showing their approval with yells and clapping him on the back when he jumped offstage. Everyone was either crowding him or heading towards the bar but he had tunnel vision.

Leaning against the wall in the corner of the venue, right under a glowing red ‘exit’ sign, was Yuri.

Before he could reach soft yellow, he was intercepted by bright blue.

“Here, sweaty.” Holly muttered, pushing a towel into his bare stomach. “And find a shirt if you can manage, yeah?”

Otabek took it thankfully, wiping away the sweat that had been earned from a show well performed. He usually took his shirt off at some point during the set, if not before. He'd have to find one before facing the night chill.

Jarrod came to wrap his arms around Holly, and for a moment it seemed that she forgot they were supposed to be fighting as she let familiar arms embrace her. It only lasted a second before she was glaring at Otabek, asking him if he had better things to do. He looked back up at Yuri and walked towards him again, leaving Holly behind to have her way with Jarrod for the night.

Yuri was clearly waiting for him, his hands curled in the pockets of Otabek’s jacket (was it even still his?).

Kissing him was easy, felt almost like second nature after the time they’d spent together. For a moment it was just them. Eyes closed and his arms circling Yuri’s waist, he can pretend it’s all new again. He can feel his heart stutter just like it had that first night, when it was as unexpected as the perfect song playing at the perfect moment.

Then he hears the smash of glass behind them and Holly shouting curse words in English and Italian alike, and they’re disillusioned. At the same moment their lips part and they press their foreheads together hoping they can get one more moment, Serik pushes the side door open with his foot, hauling gear on a rolling cart.

“You gonna help me, or are you going to suck face with your boyfriend all night?”

They part ways, like a song going silent with seven seconds still on the track.

 

When they find each other again, Yuri had a bruise forming on his forearm from breaking up a barfight and convincing a very pissed off New Yorker to sleep in the same room as an east coast kid, and Otabek had found a shirt and carried his brother on his back up a flight of stairs.

They meet in the kitchen and Otabek doesn’t ask questions when Yuri steals two packs of instant hot chocolate and pockets them, walking out with the door open behind him. Otabek takes the invitation for what it is, and locks the door behind him. The other three will go to sleep and not wonder where they are.

The walk to Yuri’s house is silent, as are his movements in the kitchen as he makes the hot chocolate. Otabek just watches him pour the drinks into two mugs, about halfway in each. Then he moves across the floor to open a top cabinet, stretching up to reach something so that his dress rides up.

“Don’t get too excited.” He teases, not bothering to look over his shoulder. He knows where Otabek’s eyes are. It’s the first thing he’s said since the morning, and it dissolves the tension somewhat.

He pulls down a bottle of kahlua and pours an excessive amount into each of the mugs, filling them to their brims and stirring them up with a spoon.

He gestures to the window above the sink and Otabek understands, climbing up onto the counter and pushing the pane up. He crawls through and then reaches back for his mug, and Yuri does the same.

In the street, life moves on. People are walking their dogs and riding home in their cars, staring out the windows at the houses they pass by,maybe at two men sitting on a fire escape drinking spiked hot chocolate.

After a few minutes of silent sipping, Yuri further dissipates the tension.

“I guess it’s really not anyone’s fault that they die.” He started, and Otabek can’t help but remember the ocean of difference that is between them. Yuri had a running list of people in his life who had died before he’d reached eighteen, and Otabek had never lost anyone, except maybe Ricky. If that counted.

“I used to think maybe it was me. My dad didn’t want me because I look like her, and she didn’t want me because I acted more and more like him with every passing day. How do you tell that shit to a baby?”

Otabek was quiet. He was meant to be on vocal rest until their next show anyway. It wasn’t a challenge for him, to give Yuri the time he needed.

“Grandpa found me with her, after the fact. I was crying, asking why she wasn’t waking up, why she’d been sick and the doctor had been giving her so many shots. They didn’t want him to take care of me, at first. His health was already bad, but I think something in him died with my mom that day. He didn’t have much, but all he had left he gave to me for that little bit of time I had with him.”

Yuri had been staring straight ahead with a cold stare, but at the mention of his grandpa, the weight on him loosened and he smiled for a moment.

“He was a good man.”

Yuri pauses for a long moment, draining his cup, before he continued.

“When I was adopted, I thought it was a second chance. I told myself that I was going to be really good, and work hard in school, and if I did everything right I would be safe. It didn't really work out so well, and it was safer for me to be out of the house most of the time. Once I got into the foster care system, it only got worse. I was smart enough to pass my classes, but I still traded a few favors so that I could pass English. I felt really gross the first time I did it, even though it felt good. I realized I had something people wanted, a fantasy. I let guys dress me in their girlfriend's clothes before fooled around, that's how I started dressing like this. It was the one time I felt wanted, felt good about myself.”

Otabek looked at Yuri, the way tendrils of hair were framing his face and hiding half of him. He wanted to reach out and touch him, maybe brush the hair back so that he could see all of him. He was afraid if he tried, Yuri would stop talking and block him out again. He wasn't trying to tear the walls down that Yuri built to protect himself, he just wanted a spare key.

“When I started going to shows, it got a little better. I made friends with the girlfriends of the guys in the bands, or the ones that wanted to be. They taught me to do my makeup, took me shopping. It was a game, to see who could look the best, get the most drinks, make the bassist take the backstage the fastest.” He smirked coyly, setting his empty cup down beside him and pulling his knees up, arms wrapping around himself.

“No one really mattered before I met you, Beka.”

The atmosphere shifted again, like the flip of a record. Finally, Yuri met his eyes, chin resting on his kneecaps and a soft smile drawn on his mouth.

“What you said this morning, I've only ever heard that six other times in my whole life. I guess you're my lucky seven.”

Otabek smiles, and he can't help himself, he reaches out to tuck Yuri’s hair behind his ear so he can see his eyes — count all the colors they contain in the light of the moon.

“I'll say it as many times as you need to hear it,” Otabek finally speaks, having heard everything. Yuri wasn't one to go on about sordid details, he didn't want anyone feeling sorry for him. Otabek wouldn't ever do that, but he knew how to fit the pieces together. They had an understanding of each other from that first night, and it had only deepened. “I promise, I won’t take it back. I won’t leave you, Yura. Not unless you ask me to.”

Yuri opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, probably a snap comment. Just as quick he closed it and his face softened. Otabek set down his empty mug and broke the space that had been between them. He draped his arm over Yuri’s shoulder and pulled him in close until they were leaning on each other, hip to hip.

They met in the middle, kissing softly for only a moment before Yuri crawled in ever closer, straddling Otabek’s lap. If anyone was still watching from below, they were getting quite a show as Yuri’s hips danced and his fingers gripped possessively into Otabek’s hair.

“I love you.” He found himself whispering like a secret against pale lips, cold from the night air. He said it again, against the pulse of Yuri’s neck, against his jawbone.

“Stop saying it.” Yuri groaned softly, pulling him in for another kiss to shut him up, his hips still grinding down on Otabek’s lap. He took a sharp inhale of breath when he felt familiar hands slipping under the hem of his dress.

“Take me to bed,” he muttered when they paused to breathe, the night air cold enough that they were exchanging fog. “And show me how much.”

They clambered into the kitchen, crawling over the sink and barely remembering to close the window behind them as Otabek lifted Yuri up, bridal style and laughing as his golden hair fell down, and carried him up the stairs.

If anyone below was still watching, passing by the house in the night, they would see two white coffee mugs abandoned on the fire escape, and a warmly-lit window on the second floor go dark.

 

 

Otabek Altin, former one night stand champion, was officially on Boyfriend Duty.

He watched Yuri’s bare feet move around under the edge of the curtain that concealed the tiny dressing in room in the corner of the little boutique. On the speakers overhead, Patti Smith was singing about angels. In his hands, Otabek carried two bags, one from the record shop and one from a store in the mall Yuri made him swear they hadn't stepped foot inside.

The curtain pulled back, and Yuri walked out in a new skirt. It looked the same as the last three he tried on, but Otabek dutifully gave his boyfriend response when he asked how it looked.

“Beautiful.”

Yuri shot him a narrowed look. He only smirked, leaning into the wall next to the mirrors. Yuri returned behind the velvet fabric. He pushed it back only a moment later.

“Amazing.” Otabek instantly assessed.

Yuri groaned, defeated. “It's the same skirt.”

“And the same person wearing the skirt.”

A flash of white teeth, and a hand reached up to tuck blonde hair back. He did it again.

“Perfect.”

Again.

“Inspiring.”

One last time, and he was biting into his cherry-painted lips.

“Erotic.” Otabek deadpanned, and Yuri rolled his eyes and flipped him off.

“Is that a promise?”

The curtain closed quickly and a moment later the skirt fell to the floor.

Waiting, Otabek toyed with the small baggie in the pocket of his jacket, his thumb pressing down and crushing up the contents. He looked at the screen of his phone for the time, a picture Yuri had taken of the two of them together making ugly cute faces greeting him. He pocketed his phone, and searched for something to focus on other than what was in his pocket.

Across the perimeter of the shop, Serik’s nervous cracking voice was the perfect distraction. He watched him from around the corner so as to not make it obvious he was spying, biting back a laugh.

Serik was leaning up against the glass counter at the front of the store, doing his best attempt to flirt with the girl behind it. She was probably around his age, but still in high school. She didn't look amused by Serik’s attention.

Otabek couldn't hear all they were saying, but from the bits he gathered he could tell they weren't giving out any free tickets to the next show.

He looked back to the dressing room, watching amusedly as Yuri hopped around, squeezing himself into the tightest faux leather leggings he could find. Serik approached him, sipping at a half-gone milkshake in a styrofoam cup.

“Did you tell her you were a drummer?” He asked curiously. In his past experiences, being in a band was like a pass-and-collect card.

“Yeah.” His brother muttered, leaning against the wall.

“Did it work?”

“Nope.”

Otabek sighed, throwing an arm around Serik’s shoulders. “Well, it's okay. You'll get your kicks soon, bub. God is just planning on someone really special for you, or whatever.”

Serik scrunched his face up skeptically. “You don't even believe in a god.”

“If you get a girlfriend, I just might.”

Serik punched his shoulder, but practically giggled all the same in spite of himself. He let Otabek keep his arm over his shoulder, leaning his head into it.

“Shouldn't you be shopping too, maybe get a shirt you'll actually keep on for the whole set?”

“He only gets clothes from a dumpster.” Yuri called out from behind the curtain. Otabek nodded, he wasn't entirely wrong.

Finally dressed, Yuri made his way towards the front of the shop to make his purchases. Otabek noticed the way Serik straggled behind, feeling shy after the latest rejection.

They walked to a nearby café, occupying a table and talking. Otabek was quick to excuse himself to the bathroom, where he finally got a chance to use what had been teasing him in his pocket.

Afterwards, he leaned over the sink, his fingertips gripping into the porcelain as he took deep, even breaths. It was like he was catching his breath after being underwater for a month. He didn't look up from the blinding white of the sink until he saw small circles of red forming.

He whipped his head up, startling at the sight of blood dripping down the nose of the person looking back at him in the reflection. He didn't know why it startled him, it happened before. But it had been a while.

At that exact moment, someone on the other side of the door pounded on its surface, signaling he was taking too long. He moved fast, turning on the faucet and letting the water wash away the drops of red. He grabbed a few paper towels from the dispenser, trying to hold them in place and pinch the bridge of his nose at the same time. He cleared away the evidence, throwing it into the trash and burying it under bloody paper towels.

He took a moment to steady himself, and then turned off the water. He unlocked the door and made a grandiose flourish towards the unoccupied restroom, and it did nothing to amuse the disgruntled beefy man who had been waiting for the piss palace. He got a middle finger for it, and Otabek thought it was a lot cuter when Yuri did it.

He got a flat white for himself and a chai for Yuri, bringing them out to the table where the two boys were still talking animatedly — something about the upcoming movie night they were planning. Since they'd started their impromptu tour, Serik and Yuri had formed a tradition of watching movies on the mattress in the back of the van, sharing headphones and watching on the laptop they regularly stole from Jarrod.

Yuri also had his sketchbook in his lap, an assortment of pens laid out on the table where Otabek set down the drinks. It was another hobby he’d discovered Yuri had once they started touring. He spend a lot of time with Holly and Serik, of course, often when Otabek and Jarrod were out causing mischief or throwing back shots at the bar after a show. But when that got tiring, Otabek noticed how introspective his boyfriend could be, sitting alone pensively, either sketching or writing. It was a comfort, sometimes they were alone together and lay on opposite sides of the bed, sometimes smoking but each writing, each creating. It hadn't been a joke when he said Yuri was inspiring to him, he'd never written songs like the ones he'd been writing over the past few months.

He pulled up a chair behind Yuri, hooking his chin over Yuri’s shoulder and kissing his cheek affectionately. He let his head stay there, watching Yuri’s drawing take form as the conversation continued easily.

Yuri was roughly sketching a tiger, Otabek smirking and nipping the shell of his ear playfully when he realized. Of all the pet names Otabek lavished upon Yuri like he never had with anyone else, tiger seemed to be his favorite thing to hear, only after “let's get food” or “I wrote something for you.”

The orange fur slowly bled up the page, until flames surrounded the tiger’s head like a fiery halo.

“That's sick, dude.” Serik stated his approval when Yuri turned the book to show him. “We should put that on our band shirts.”

Yuri laughed, shaking his head. “It's not good enough for that, no one would buy it.”

The conversation fell quiet, and Otabek thought about it.

He thought about Yuri laying his head down on his chest when they slept, always close to Otabek’s heart. He thought about the way Yuri looked in his _Almaty’s Fire_ shirt, cheering from the front row or waiting on the sidelines. He thought about Yuri in the yellow motel room light, dancing around in that black lace teddy just like their first time. He thought about the way Yuri sounded when he laughed, when he moaned, when he was upset. He thought about the way Yuri felt, the curves of him soft and the angles harsh and unforgiving. He thought about the way Yuri tasted when he was wine drunk, the way he smelt like the rose oil he bathed in. He thought about every way Yuri had infiltrated his life, so seamlessly. It was like Yuri was the missing chord, and now that Otabek had found him everything was more bearable.

“Let me get that tatted.” He decided, easy as song.

Yuri turned to face him, giving a quizzical look.

“I'm serious. It looks cool, and it's from you.”

Yuri’s features softened, and he bit into his bottom lip, eyes scanning Otabek’s face, as if memorizing its surface.

“You could be my lucky seven.”

“Technically eight, you have two hip tattoos.” Serik added in, but by the time he looked up from his phone to see he was being ignored, it was too late. Yuri was already sitting in Otabek’s lap, kissing him slow and far too passionately for a public setting.

“Ugh, get a room.” The youngest muttered grumpily, still sore from earlier.

Yuri looked up at him, biting his lip when Otabek followed him, attacking his neck.

“Can I see your new keychain?”

Serik handed his keys over with his new acrylic keychain facing out, and Yuri grabbed the whole set and stood up, taking Otabek’s hand and leading him towards where the van was parked down the street.

Serik gasped in mock-shock, as if it hadn't happened (many) times before.

“You can't use the tour van as your own personal love wagon!” He called out to them, but Yuri was already pushing Otabek down in the back, shutting the door closed with his boot-clad foot.

 

 

A few weeks later, they were back in the old stomping grounds. That first night sleeping in his bed after cramped nights in the van or a motel room was like heaven. When Yuri woke him up the next morning and climbed on top of him, he told him he looked like an angel. It wasn't the first time, and he knew it wouldn't be the last.

Armand was happy as ever to see them, opening his arms for a hug for each of them when they walked into the shop. Embarrassingly enough, Armand made the entire shop quiet down to announce that they had just returned from a series of shows on the east coast. Everyone clapped politely, a few cheers and hoots sprinkled throughout. Of course, Otabek had just pulled his shirt over his head, so timing made it seem more like it was for that reason. He flushed at all the attention, giving an awkward and embarrassed nod of thanks as Armand clapped his back and pushed him down into the chair.

Yuri was laughing quietly, scooting in close on the spinning stool from an empty station. It was good to see him in high spirits, it had been a hard last week. Everyone was tired, not used to being on the road for so long. Everyone was a little homesick. Jarrod and Holly had never fully recovered from their last fight, and when they made it to New York for a show, Holly decided to stay. She spent the night with Yuri before they left, drinking wine when they took a bubble bath together and watching movies until three in the morning. She'd seen them off, while Jarrod waited in the van with still red, puffy eyes. Yuri had pretended it didn't matter and that he wasn't upset, but that night when Otabek was driving with the radio on and the other boys were asleep, he could tell Yuri was crying. He pulled over a while later, making Jarrod take the wheel, and held Yuri close to him, stroking through his hair until he fell asleep.  
“So, What are we getting this time?”

Yuri unfolds the piece of sketchbook paper and hands it over, and Armand just smiles and gets to work preparing Otabek’s skin and then heads to the back to make the stencil.

Pulling his hand in and curling their fingers together, Yuri kisses over his knuckles.

“You sure you want to go through with this?”

“I sang a song about getting fucked by you in front of at least two hundred people, I think I can commit to this.”

Yuri bit his thumb, and Otabek throws him a wink.

He sits back and watches Armand begin, the lines of his sketch forming and the colors slowing building in over the hours. Otabek watches him, the way that pride and wonder flicker over his face as his design is etched into Otabek’s skin permanently.

“Hey space buns,” Armand is muffled through the mask as he calls both of their attention, but only Yuri looks up. “Want to ink the last part, the eyes?”

He says it quietly, because of course Yuri isn’t licensed to do that. He isn’t licensed to do anything, actually.

“I asked him to let you.” Otabek murmurs, rubbing his thumb over Yuri’s hand as if it will convince him. “Please Yura, I want you to.

His green eyes are wide, but he nods and lets Armand instruct him. When he finally puts the needle to skin, Otabek bites his lip, watching him.

“I’m so hard right now.” he jokes, and Yuri snaps back without ever losing focus. It wasn’t completely untrue, seeing Yuri like that was something he could grow used to.

“Shut up, I’ll mess it up and then you’ll be that asshole who let his boyfriend give him a tattoo and fucked it up.”

He smirked. “You know I gave myself my first tattoo, right? It can’t be as bad as that.”

It was a small part, so as soon as he starts he’s finished.

Yuri stands behind Otabek in the mirror to look at the complete piece. He hooks his chin over the cityscape on his back, his fingers brushing affectionately against the blue-green lotus flower on the nape of his neck. On Otabek’s chest sits a tiger set ablaze, the color of its eyes perfectly matched to the ones staring back in the mirror.

Yuri kisses his neck, whispering into his ear as arms wrap around him.

“I love you, lucky seven.”

 

Yuri doesn’t stop saying it when they get home. He says it like he’s making up for lost time, all the times he was deprived of it. Otabek keeps his promise to say it as many times as Yuri needs it. Serik, on the other hand, spends a lot of time rolling his eyes at their bullshit.

Life moves on. Otabek tries to compensate for Holly’s absence. He sits in the bathtub opposite Yuri and they drink wine and kiss easily, dissolving into laughter the way the bubbles dissolve into the water. They go on dates, go shopping, play games with Serik. Otabek tries to get Jarrod out of the house, or even out of his room, with varying levels of success.

He makes a habit of calling his parents a couple times a month, tells his mother about Yuri. He sings his baby sister to sleep. He skypes with his brother, who is sure to let him know they all like Yuri slightly better than him, but everyone else is too polite to tell him the truth.

They play more local shows and struggle to pay their bills. They throw house parties and blow money they don’t have on alcohol and other substances with alternating legalities. They get high, and crash together in the basement. He falls into bed with Yuri every night, and it never feels like they’ve touched each other enough.

He takes Serik to a baseball game, because that’s something brothers do in America. They get bored halfway through and leave to hit up an arcade. He wins Yuri a stuffed tiger.

He dances with Yuri in the kitchen at midnight, singing to him.

He’s the happiest he’s ever been in his life. He starts praying again the dead of night when Yuri is sleeping in his arms that it never changes, that he never messes it up.

 

No one knows the songs are about Yuri.

Maybe that’s what’s good about the ambiguity of the songs he writes. They’re not so specific that the guy in the middle of the crowd grinding up against his girlfriend can’t relate to what he’s singing about. Even the woman very enthusiastically making out with her girlfriend in the front row and ignoring the whole set can surely identify with a few of the sentiments.

_Wrapped hand around your thigh_

_As I wander your body_

_Dripping in milk and high_

_Let me taste your mind_

It sounded less like poetry when accompanied by a bitching riff and Serik banging on his drum kit in the background, but more so when he sang it in Yuri’s ear as he pressed him against the brick wall in the locked dressing room, hands sliding up to wander under his pleated skirt like a promise well kept.

Things had changed, and it had been a wild year. They were rarely home. Their parties moved to motel pools, celebratory drinks at the bar after each show. Their new home was the road, the places they traveled together, streaming from one city into the next.

Only one thing would remain as constant as the ink on his skin, and it was a strong pair of Jade eyes at every show. Always closeby, cheering him on, like a lucky charm.

No one knew who all the songs were about. No one, except the person they were written for.

Otabek’s lucky seven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has been here for this story, commenting along the way and keeping me going! Thank you to everyone who will read it now that it's complete, welcome to the late late show. Thank you to all my tumblr fam who let me whine when i was drinking wine. And if you're not tumblr fam, you should really consider it because a lot happens there - headcanons and shitposts galore. 
> 
> Anyways, Thank you all for everything. 
> 
> I love you, you're all my lucky sevens <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Let me taste your mind](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11741868) by [thisiseclair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisiseclair/pseuds/thisiseclair)




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